My  Beloved  South 


onno 


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(V 


"LORENA" 


Poetry  by  Rev.  H.  D  L.  WEBSTER 


Composed  &  Arranged  by  J    P.  WEBSTER 


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.                      jj»ii                        |        j                              p                -                 1^- 

ii'                |\  —  >       'iy                i  [ 

—  *"£?  —  ^f~~~f~  "*  ~*^~w  —  -51—  *— 

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1.  The  years 
2.    A     nun- 
3.  We  loved 
4.   It    mat 

creep  slow-Iy   by,    Lo  -  re      -      -      na,            The  snow            is     on    the  grass     a  - 
dred  months  have  pass'd,  Lo-re     -     -     na,           Since  last              I     held  that  hand    in 
each  oth-er  then,  Lo-re      -      -      na,           More  than            we     ev  -  er  dared    to 
•    ters    lit  -tie  now,  Lo-re      •      -      na,            The  past             is      in      th'e-ter-nal 

/(fk-$  —  =»—-='  —  j 

•M  —  *  j—  •—  -—  -  -=l  —  i—  »—  *—  =1  —  ^^-^~ 

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ir:       *-^-       •  '  *       -1-* 

\       \       .      . 

"11   :  ]  11 

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((*)3I-jt  —  —  —  —  9 

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v          t~              v              -»-           ^          -^-                           *0-           *             -*•                y 

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^        '       '        f       r 

i       1  1       •                            [  —  ]  —  i  1%  1 

fm  ^  —  &~-  

gain, 
mine, 
tell; 
Past, 

The    sun's              low  down  the  sky,    Lo-re       -       -       na,              The 
And     felt               the  pulse  beat  fast,    Lo-re       -       -       na,             Tho 
And    what              we  might  have  been,  Lo-re       -       -       na,              Hai 
Our   heads             will  soon  lie    low,    Lo-re       -       -       na,            Life' 

1 

III/                        •« 

fl            .i      U                                    f 

'  1                  !  * 

1                                    1     «       1                     « 

j  n  ^T 

nv>-n  5 

fettf  —  -*  — 

#            >.                     *            *              *              *_»-            '_»' 

t:         X        t                            X         t:           X           V         X        -T         X 

r           r          t1            r              r            I 

^  «  0  —  •  —  «  —  *•  

frost  gleams  where  the  flowr's  have  been, 
mine        beat  fas  -  ter  far  than  thine, 
but          our  lov-ing  prosper'd  well- 
tide           is    eb-  bing  out  so    fast. 

But  the  heart  throbs  on  as  warm  -  ly  now,                    As 
A         hundred  months—  'twas  flow'ry  May,                Wher 
But         then,     'tis  past  —  the  years  are  gone,                   n 
There          is        a     Fu-turel  0  thank  God,                    Of 

m_S  —  !L_p 

i  —  i  —  i 

F^Fn 

S3?  -    ^^^ 

H  —  i  ^  —  i  —  i 

in 

i- 

y  —  - 

• 

* 

1 

=J-J 

3 

—  *  —  i 

3*5 

J] 

-«--«--•- 

^4^ 

•m  ^P^ 

jTl    III 

hffi-HI 

SEs.  

i*  — 

3pjC        )• 

-4  1-       . 

when  the  sum-mer  days  were  nigh  ; 

up  the  hil  -  ly   slope  we  climbed, 

not  call  up  their  shadowy  forms  ; 

life  this     is     so  small  a      part  ! 


Ohl     the  sun 
To  watch 

I'll  say 

'Tis.  .  .     dust 


can    nev  -  er    dip,     so 
the     dy  -  ing    of      the 
to  them,  "lost  years  sleep 
to     dust    be-neath  the 


IL 

1       *, 

2uw                                   —  "i  *~~ 

~i    ""     K     >  '  N"  "  r*     i 

&  .     3  r* 

—  *-^  —  -        —  j  — 

—  ~M  ~m  'M 

^  * 

t  /              ^               "^~ 

-  down 
d    hear 
p     on! 
t  there, 

af  -  fec-tion's  cloud  -less     sky.                             The 
the      dis  -  tant  church  bells  chimed.                            To 
nor    heed  life's   pelt  •  ing     storm."                         I'll 
up   there,  'tis    heart    to  •    heart.                           'Tis 

low,     A 

day,   An 

on  1  Sle( 

god  •  Be 

f^J     ^ 

—  1  * 

—  *  — 

—  1  a 

-U 

:  . 

>•      x      •?•       x 

1                      1 

•*•         X           •£. 
t         *           f 

X 

X        t 

r         r 

sun  can  nev  -  er   dip     so     low,  .... 

watch  the  dy  -  ing  of.     the    day, ...... 

say  to  them, "Tost  years, sleep  on  I .... 

dust        to  dust  be-neath  the    sod  ; 


A- down  af-fection's  cloudless  sky. 

And  hear  the  distant  church  bells  chimed. 

Sleep  on  I  nor  heed, life 'spelt-ing  storm. 

But  there,  up  there,  'tis  heart  to   heart. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


By  Mrs.  T.  P.  O'Connor 


Little  Thank  You 

My  Beloved  South 

I  Myself 


My    Beloved    South 


By 
Mrs.  T.  P.  O'Connor 

Author  of  "Little  Thank  You,"  "I  Myself,"  etc. 


The  Sun  is  Laughter/  for  'tis  He  who  maketh  joyous  the 
thoughts  of  men,  and  gladdeneth  the  infinite  world." 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and  London 

Cbe    fmicfterbocfcet    press 

1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1913 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S   SONS 


Published  November,  1913 
Fourth  Impression 


TTbe  Imfcfeerbocfeer  press,  Hew  JJorfc 


FSJU 


Go 

THOMAS   NELSON   PAGE 


E 

CO 

>.  Each  day  the  memory  of  the  old  South  becomes  more  and  more  a 

2<      cherished  dream.     Its  bounteous  hospitality,  its  quixotic  chivalry,  its 

§5      daring  courage,  its  spotless  honour,  its  poetic  understanding,  are  reced- 

Ij      ing  into  the  heroic  past.     Therefore,  we  of  the  Old  Guard  must  stand 

together,  and  do  what  we  can  to  keep  the  younger  and  more  practical 

generation  Unforgetting.     My  pen  is  freighted  with  appreciation,  but 

§f       is,  alas,  inadequate,  while  already  your  genius  has  made  "  The  tender 

^       grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead"  immortal;  and  so,  after  many  years  of 

=»      affectionate  friendship,  I  dedicate  this  book  to  you. 


* 


O 

o 

ca 


9 

< 


A  FRIENDLY  WORD 

A  WANDERING  minstrel  I,  a  thing  of  shreds  and 
patches.  ..."  My  book  is  but  a  reflection  of 
myself;  its  sole  recommendation, — that  my  bale  of 
cotton  grew  under  warm  sunshine,  and  every  thread 
spun  and  woven  into  material  is  from  the  old  and  new 
South.  "I  have  gathered  me  a  posy  of  other  men's 
thoughts,  only  the  thread  that  holds  them  together  is 
mine. "  Some  of  the  stories  have  even  been  told  before, 
but  they  belong  to  me  by  right  of  inheritance  and 
Love,  so  may  I  not  tell  them  again? 

After  many  years  of  absence,  when  the  riches  and 
abundance  of  my  country  were  displayed  to  me,  it  was 
my  ambition  to  write  an  informing,  practical,  statistical 
book.  Such  a  one  as  would  induce  English  settlers  to 
set  sail  for  the  Southern  States.  There,  English  tradi- 
tion, an  ever-green,  would  extend  a  fraternal  welcome, 
and  with  a  small  capital,  or  even  none  at  all,  except 
health  and  strong  hands,  a  Home  awaits  them. 

But  my  frank  friends  discouraged  this  undertaking. 
There  are  so  many  writers,  they  said,  who  know  more 
of  the  progress,  resources,  and  wealth  of  the  country 
than  you  possibly  can  know.  The  most  you  can  hope 
to  do,  is  to  make  an  entertaining  South. 

It  was  the  great  William  Pitt,  who,  when  a  man 
was  recommended  to  him  because  he  talked  sense,  said : 
"  Anybody  can  talk  sense,  Sir;  can  he  talk  nonsense?" 
And  if  now  and  then  I  have  struck  a  rag- time  tune— 


vi  A  Friendly  Word 

and  who  has  a  better  right — underneath  the  nonsense 
and  plantation  songs,  one  earnest  wish  has  been  always 
in  my  heart,  to  bring  England  and  America  closer  to- 
gether, and  to  make  them  understand  each  other. 

Men  and  women  in  Virginia  have  said  to  me,  "  I  love 
Virginia,  and  after  Virginia — England."  For  myself,  I 
love  America  in  England,  and  England  in  America; 
they  are  both  my  countries,  and  if  a  little  word  of  mine 
has  made  greater  friendliness  even  for  a  brief  moment 
between  them,  my  book  will  not  have  been  written  in 
vain. 


THE  WARM  SPRINGS, 
VIRGINIA. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  DUVALS           .....         i 

II.  YOUTH'S  GLAD  SUCCESS  .         .         .         .21 

III.  THE  CONQUERING  PIONEER      ...       35 

IV.  SAM  HOUSTON         .....       47 
V.  ACROSS  THE  SEA  TO  MARYLAND         .         .       70 

VI.  CHRISTMAS  AND  OLD  MEMORIES        .         .       84 

VII.  CHARLES  TOWN  AND  WASHINGTON    .         .      98 

VIII.  THE  SYMBOL  OF  THE  SOUTH      .         .               117 

IX.  HOSPITABLE  CHARLESTON         .         .         .131 

X.  THE  CHARM  OF  CHARLESTON — THE  SILVER 

GARDEN      ......     147 

XL  IN  SAVANNAH          .....     161 

XII.  THE  MULES  OF  GEORGIA          .         .         .180 

XIII.  THE  SUWANEE  RIVER      .         .         .         .192 

XIV.  THE  WOMEN  OF  NEW  ORLEANS         .         .     202 
XV.  OLD- WORLD  NEW  ORLEANS      .         .         .     220 

XVI.  A  RUSSIAN  ROMEO  AND  JULIET         .         .     235 

XVII.  AN  OLD-TIME  PLANTATION                 .         .     248 


viii  Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVIII.  THE  MISSISSIPPI  RIVER  ....  267 

XIX.  HARRIS  DICKSON 282 

XX.  A  PRESENT-DAY  PLANTATION  .         .         .  300 

XXL  MY  HERO       .         .         .         .         .         .316 

XXII.  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT'S  RESPONSIBILITY  FOR 

THE  CIVIL  WAR   .....  327 

XXIII.  GALLANT,  BRAVE,  HEARTY  KENTUCKY        .  337 

XXIV.  A  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN           .         .         .  358 
XXV.  A  BRAVE  LADY 387 

XXVI.  MY  HEALING  SOUTH        ....  399 


My  Beloved  South 


My  Beloved  South 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  DUVALS 

One  bright  memory — only  one; 

And  I  walk  by  the  light  of  its  gleaming; 

It  brightens  my  days,  and  when  days  are  done 

It  shines  in  the  night  o'er  my  dreaming. 

Father  THOMAS  RYAN. 

IN  my  wandering  life  of  deepest  shadow  and  occasional 
sunshine,  there  is  but  one  thing  for  which  I  am 
altogether  devoutly  thankful, — I  was  born  and  bred 
in  the  South,  and  for  generations  on  both  sides  of  my 
family  my  ancestors  were  Southern  people ;  conse- 
quently, without  conflict,  my  qualities  and  defects  are 
those  of  my  race.  For  my  own  personal  defects,  given 
me  at  birth  with  a  free  hand  by  my  whimsical  fairy 
godmother,  neither  my  family  nor  my  beloved  land  is 
responsible. 

My  great-grandfather,  Major  Duval,  fought  in  the 
War  of  the  Revolution,  and  gave  goodly  sums  towards 
the  cause.  He  married  at  twenty-three  a  Miss  Pope 
of  Virginia,  an  heiress  of  whom  he  made  rather  a  sudden 
and  theatrical  conquest,  not  later  than  five  minutes 
after  he  discovered  her.  She,  a  fair-haired,  dimpled 
beauty,  wearing  a  silken  hood,  a  green  merino  gown, 

x 


2  My  Beloved  South 

little  calfskin  shoes  with  silver  buckles,  a  black  silk 
apron,  and  open-work  mittens,  was  walking  one  golden 
October  afternoon  in  a  primeval  forest  near  the  banks 
of  the  Shenandoah.  In  the  angle  of  her  round  arm  lay 
a  big  ball  of  worsted,  and  the  sun  slanting  down  on  her 
glancing  needles  struck  diamond  brilliance  from  their 
quick  activity. 

My  great-grandfather,  returning  from  the  chase, 
young,  dashing,  good-looking,  suddenly  beheld  this 
vision.  He  wore  the  buckskin  clothes  of  the  Virginian 
hunter,  and  carried  his  day's  trophy  of  wild  turkey, 
ducks,  and  rabbits  slung  across  his  shoulder.  His 
rifle  held  one  last  bullet. 

Quickly  advancing  to  the  astonished  young  lady,  he 
took  off  his  bearskin  cap,  and  making  a  bow  so  low 
that  the  turkeys  touched  the  ground,  he  said,  "  Madame, 
permit  me."  Then  lifting  the  ball  of  worsted  from  its 
envied  resting-place,  he  lightly  tossed  it  high  into  the 
air,  shot  the  bullet  straight  through  its  heart,  and  as 
it  came  down  caught  it  and  placed  it,  smoking  with 
powder  and  with  love,  in  her  apron  pocket. 

The  dimples  all  appeared  as  she  said,  "Sir,  you  can 
shoot  and  hit  the  mark." 

He  bowed  again  and  answered,  "So  can  Cupid,  and 
I  hope," — pointing  to  her  fluttering  heart — "in  the 
right  direction." 

The  young  lady,  a  very  distant  cousin  whom  he  had 
never  met,  was  from  Richmond,  visiting  an  aunt 
on  an  adjoining  plantation.  He  walked  home  with 
her,  in  the  mellow  sunshine  of  an  Indian  summer 
afternoon,  through  the  wonderful  scarlet  and  gold 
forests  of  the  early  Virginia  autumn,  leaving  on  the 
doorstep  of  the  wide  plantation  house  his  day's  hunt 
as  his  first  love  offering. 


The  Good  Major  Duval  3 

The  next  day  he  re-appeared,  brave  in  satin  small- 
clothes and  lace  ruffles,  the  queue  of  his  fair  hair  tied 
with  a  silken  ribbon,  and  offered  himself  with  proper 
dignity  as  suitor  for  her  hand.  A  month  later  they 
were  married  and  lived  happy  ever  afterwards. 

I  have  an  idea  that  my  great-grandmother  was  the 
more  interesting  of  the  two  (the  Popes  are  an  intellec- 
tual, fascinating  family),  and  when  she  died  so  intense 
was  her  husband's  grief  that  finally  nature  mercifully 
relieved  him  with  a  gentle  absent-minded  forgetfulness. 

When  his  children  grew  up,  he  sold  his  winter  home 
in  Richmond  and  afterwards  lived  entirely  on  his 
plantation,  devoting  the  long  summer  days  to  bass 
fishing  in  the  Shenandoah,  which  is  no  mean  sport,  as 
bass  are  wary  and  valorous  fighters.  Indeed,  a  mature 
father  or  bachelor  fish  of  middle  age  and  accumulated 
wisdom  is  seldom  caught;  the  reckless  youngsters  who 
disregard  the  admonitions  of  their  seniors  are  the  only 
fish  to  be  inveigled  by  the  most  tempting  bait.  Finally 
my  great-grandfather  gave  up  even  this  sport,  and 
spent  his  days  on  the  wide  balcony  which  faced  the 
virgin  forest  where  he  first  saw  the  merry  coquettish 
face  of  my  great-grandmother.  He  read  the  Richmond 
newspaper  from  beginning  to  end,  and  gave  it  to  a 
small  darkey  standing  in  attendance.  This  boy  ran 
round  the  house,  and  handed  him  back  the  same  paper, 
which  "the  good  Major  Duval"  read  all  over  again 
with  reminiscent  but  deep  satisfaction.  It  was 
evidently  from  this  ancestor  that  my  quite  imbecile 
forgetfulness  comes. 

The  old  miniatures  and  portraits  give  him  a  round 
face,  baby-like  pink-and-white  skin,  fair  hair,  blue 
eyes,  and  the  most  friendly  and  engaging  expression. 
How  inevitably  hereditary  traits  appear  even  in  the 


4  My  Beloved  South 

third  and  fourth  generation.  My  beautiful  grandsor* 
of  five  said  to  me  after  a  French  lesson  the  other  day  • 
"Damma,  isn't  it  sad  that  one  so  young  as  I  should 
have  such  a  bad  memory?"  And  immediately  the 
picture  of  his  Virginia  ancestor,  sitting  on  a  wide 
vine-clad  balcony  and  reading  quite  happily  a  news- 
paper for  the  fourth  time,  suggested  itself  to  me. 

Another  Miss  Pope,  a  kinswoman  of  mine,  married 
and  came  to  Texas  to  live.  She  was  tall  and  dark,  with 
jet-black  hair,  pearl-white  teeth,  a  touch  of  dark  down 
on  her  upper  lip,  and  the  most  enchanting  speaking 
voice  I  have  ever  heard.  It  was  like  golden  velvet, 
and  she  talked  with  great  brilliancy  and  a  wealth  of 
information  on  every  conceivable  subject,  for  she  lived 
in  books  and  not  in  the  life  around  her.  To  that  she 
was  extremely  indifferent,  and  had  the  reputation  of 
being  a  humorously  bad  housekeeper. 

My  mother,  with  her  sense  of  order  and  Spartan-like 
cleanliness,  frankly  disapproved  of  her,  but  my  father 
loved  her,  and,  as  she  was  not  his  wife,  forgave  her 
disorder. 

One  afternoon  when  I  was  a  very  little  girl  my  father 
drove  out  to  see  her,  taking  me  with  him.  She  lived  a 
few  miles  from  Austin  and  a  little  creek  ran  through 
the  garden,  so  the  flowers  were  glorious  and  plentiful, 
being  always  supplied  with  water.  The  wide  hall  was 
hung  with  family  portraits,  but  the  floor  looked  like  a 
village  street,  literally  covered  with  dried  mud  in  little 
footprints,  as  if  animals  had  wandered  in  and  out  at  will. 

The  negro  maid  said  Miss  Anna  was  sick,  but  would 
the  Judge  and  Miss  Betty  go  right  in.  And  we  were 
shown  into  an  immense  bedroom  opposite  the  drawing- 
room.  A  slight  fever  had  given  her  a  colour  and  she 
looked  very  handsome  with  her  dark  hair  wandering 


A  Lady  of  Intellect  5 

over  the  pillow  in  two  long  thick  plaits.  Beside  her 
stood  a  small  table  piled  with  books ;  some  had  toppled 
on  to  the  bed,  and  there  were  books  on  the  window-seat 
and  on  the  sofa,  and  my  father  relieved  the  chair  he 
was  to  sit  upon  of  quite  a  small  library. 

He  had  first  selected  a  large  puffy-looking  rocker, 
but  our  hostess  smilingly  admonished  him:  "Don't 
take  that  chair,  Judge,  or  you  will  sit  on  the  new  baby." 
Then,  seeing  my  eager  look  of  interest,  she  said:  "Go 
over  and  look  at  him,  Betty,"  and  tiptoeing  over  to  the 
soft  white  bundle,  I  found  that  it  was  an  adorable 
three-months-old  fat  baby,  sound  asleep. 

Then  she  began  to  talk,  and  though  I  was  too  little 
really  to  understand,  the  soft  musical  many-toned 
voice  thrilled  me  with  pleasure.  After  a  while  a 
stirring  was  heard  under  the  bed,  and  an  obese  familiar 
sleepy  pig  made  his  appearance.  He  walked  into  the 
centre  of  the  room,  squealed  loudly,  stood  for  a  moment, 
then  trotted  leisurely  through  the  doorway,  down  the 
hall  and  out  into  the  garden.  She  dreamily  regarded 
but  made  no  comment  on  the  pig.  Her  rich  honeyed 
tones  continued  unfalteringly.  I  was  told  afterwards 
that  she  was  giving  the  last  lines  of  Keats's  Ode  to  the 
Nightingale.  The  pig,  however,  disturbed  the  child, 
who  cried,  and  my  father,  loving  babies  like  a  woman, 
lifted  the  new  man  in  his  arms,  hushed  him,  and  began 
to  walk  the  floor. 

Presently  a  pet  peacock,  the  hardest  bird  in  the 
world  to  tame,  with  his  tail  magnificently  spread,  stood 
in  the  doorway,  advanced  proudly  into  the  room,  but 
gave  a  loud  shriek  at  seeing  a  stranger  and  fled  down 
the  hall,  while  no  comment  was  made  on  him.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  was  in  a  wonderful  fairy  dream, 
with  such  lovely  things  happening — a  beautiful  lady 


6  My  Beloved  South 

with  long  plaits,  a  soft  pink  baby,  a  peacock  and  a  pig. 
Oh!  I  thought,  if  my  home  'was  only  like  this,  how 
happy  I  should  be. 

My  father's  voice  brought  me  back  from  my  dreams. 
He  was  saying,  "Where  is  your  pretty  Yankee  gover- 
ness?" Mrs.  Berkeley  answered  with  a  merry  twinkle 
in  her  eye,  "Gone.  That's  the  third,  Judge,  and  I  am 
going  to  have  a  new  petition  added  to  the  Litany, '  And 
from  governesses,  good  Lord  deliver  us.'  This 
seemed  to  me  a  most  beautiful  sentiment,  for  I,  too, 
wished  to  be  delivered  from  governesses.  I  was  too 
young  to  know  that  good-looking  George  Berkeley 
suffered  from  an  impressionable  nature.  But  eventually 
his  wife,  eight  children,  and  later  a  strong-minded  and 
elderly  German  governess,  transformed  him  into  a 
most  exemplary  husband. 

My  grandfather,  Governor  William  Peyton  Duval, 
was  a  son  of  the  good  Major  Duval.  His  boyhood  was 
spent  in  Richmond,  Virginia.  The  house  was  kept  by 
Aunt  Barbara,  a  negro  woman  who  was  almost  white. 
A  strong  character,  quick-witted  and  capable,  she  had 
taught  herself  to  read  and  write,  an  almost  unheard-of 
accomplishment  for  a  negro  in  those  far-away  days, 
and  she  was  painfully  thrifty,  locking  up  everything  in 
the  establishment,  and  carrying  a  huge  bunch  of  keys 
at  her  belt.  One  of  them  was  the  key  to  the  pantry, 
where  she  spent  twenty  minutes  every  morning  with  a 
little  negro  to  dip  out  sugar,  coffee,  tea,  flour,  raisins, 
currants,  citron,  butter,  lard  and  meal.  And  never 
did  her  lynx  eyes  relax  their  vigilance,  so  there  were  no 
peculiar  secret  cakes  from  pickings  in  the  pantry  to  be 
stealthily  cooked  in  the  cabins  at  nightfall,  as  often 
occurred  in  a  Southern  home. 

I  remember  at  the  tender  age  of  seven  partaking  of 


William  Peyton  Duval  7 

an  odd  little  cake  made  of  rice,  two  raisins,  one  almond, 
a  cucumber  pickle,  a  few  tea  leaves,  two  lumps  of 
sugar,  a  pinch  of  flour,  and  an  amber  morsel  of  citron. 
Baked  in  wood  ashes  on  the  hearth  of  Mammy's  cabin, 
it  seemed  to  me  a  delicious,  though  peculiar  morsel. 
These  were  the  gleanings  of  Henrietta,  my  little  negro 
maid  and  playmate,  who  dipped  for  my  mother  when 
she  unlocked  her  pantry  in  the  morning.  Not  always 
observant,  my  mother  gave  Henrietta  an  opportunity 
to  "borrow"  with  her  lightning  quick  fingers. 

Aunt  Barbara  knew  the  negroes  and  trusted  none  of 
them.  Even  the  wearing  apparel  of  the  Quality  was 
kept  under  lock  and  key.  At  half -past  seven  in  the 
morning  the  body  servants  of  the  gentlemen  were 
supposed  to  stand  before  an  immense  blue  press,  and 
Aunt  Barbara  counted  out  under-linen,  socks,  white 
waistcoats,  and  pocket  handkerchiefs.  If  a  lagging 
valet  appeared  at  a  quarter  to  eight  he  returned  empty- 
handed  to  his  master,  who  gave  him  such  a  dressing 
down  that  the  next  morning  he  waited  beforetime  for 
the  unlocking  of  the  press.  In  this  way  the  house  was 
spotlessly  clean,  the  linen  in  order,  and  the  lax  easy- 
going ways  inherent  in  Southern  people  were  counter- 
acted by  vigilant  management. 

My  great-grandfather  always  had  family  prayers, 
and  each  person  present  was  expected  to  repeat  a  verse 
from  Scripture.  The  Bible  was  the  dearest  and  most 
revered  book  on  earth  to  Aunt  Barbara.  Any  chap- 
ter, any  verse  was  suitable  for  her  delivery.  And  each 
morning  the  family  waited  expectantly  on  her  selection, 
which  varied  from  the  New  Testament  to  Deuteronomy 
or  the  book  of  Job.  One  unlucky  day  for  my  grand- 
father, an  exuberant  boy  of  fourteen,  Aunt  Barbara 
fixed  a  piercing  eye  on  him  and  said  in  a  sonorous  voice, 


8  My  Beloved  South 

"Remember  Lot's  wife."  An  explosion  of  laughter 
followed  and  from  that  moment  she  was  a  sworn  and 
somewhat  unjust  enemy  to  him. 

A  brother-in-law  of  my  great-grandfather's  had  been 
to  Spain  and  was  much  impressed  by  the  Spanish  mules. 
He  said  the  prettiest  sight  in  Madrid  was  a  lovely 
coquettish  woman,  a  rose  under  each  ear,  a  white  lace 
mantilla  thrown  over  her  head,  sitting  in  an  open 
carriage  driven  by  a  picturesque  coachman  clad  in 
scarlet,  and  drawn  by  jet-black  mules  made  splendid 
by  gay  and  jingling  harness.  So  he  brought  back  from 
Barcelona  a  number  of  Jacks,  thinking  to  mingle  the 
blood  of  Virginia  thoroughbreds  with  that  of  Spanish 
plebeians,  but  horses  in  that  part  of  the  country  were 
of  the  purest  pedigree.  All  their  owners  scorned  the 
idea  of  mules,  never  mind  their  strength  or  their  powers 
of  endurance.  So  the  big-headed,  noisy  Jacks  were 
turned  loose  about  the  fields  and  grew  fat  and  saucy 
from  having  too  much  grass  and  too  little  exercise. 

One  day  my  grandfather  was  startled  by  a  strange 
mighty  braying.  At  first  he  was  frightened;  then  he 
saw  an  animal  looking  at  him  with  faithful  eyes  and  as 
he  said,  "A  sort  of  horse  look,"  encouraging  to  friend- 
ship. He  tried  to  mount  the  discovery,  when  deftly 
and  quickly,  the  rider  was  thrown  high  in  the  air,  and 
the  horse-like  beast  with  triumphant  heehaws  galloped 
off  in  the  distance.  Jack,  however,  was  later  caught  and 
ridden  every  day,  and  finally  young  Duval  learned  the 
dexterity  of  the  rancher  in  keeping  his  seat.  The  other 
boys  of  the  neighbourhood  soon  followed  his  example 
and  the  Jacks  rapidly  grew  thinner  by  hard  exercise. 

In  October  he  and  half  a  dozen  lads  planned  an 
excursion,  starting  at  earliest  dawn  to  gather  nuts.. 
For  this  purpose  a  big  Jack  was  corralled  the  night  be- 


William  Peyton  Duval  9 

fore  and  placed  in  the  "smoke-house."  A  little  one- 
roomed  log  cabin,  with  a  thin  odoriferous  line  of  smoke 
rising  from  the  chimney,  and  slowly  making  delicious 
hams  and  tongues,  was  to  be  found  on  every  well-ap- 
pointed Southern  place.  The  next  morning  the  unlucky 
boy  overslept  himself,  and  Aunt  Barbara,  up  at  day- 
light, dressed  in  stiffly  starched  purple  calico,  a  gorgeous 
plaid  head  handkerchief,  wide  half-hoops  of  gold 
dangling  from  her  ears,  and  all  her  keys  jingling  at  her 
side,  proceeded  to  the  smoke-house  and  unlocked  the 
door.  She  had  slept  ill  the  night  before  and  dreamed 
of  the  devil.  Suddenly,  lurid  eyes  confronted  hers,  a 
wide  mouth  opened,  showing  great  teeth,  a  huge  voice 
emitted  a  brazen,  horrid  sound,  and  Aunt  Barbara 
was  knocked  down,  trampled  upon,  and  thrown  into  a 
fit. 

In  those  days  when  kindred  and  hospitality  were  part 
of  the  religion  of  the  South,  no  household  was  com- 
posed of  only  the  immediate  family.  My  great-grand- 
father's brother-in-law,  an  irritable  little  man,  lived  with 
him,  and  he  soon  ferreted  out  the  author  of  Aunt 
Barbara's  illness,  and  not  satisfied  with  giving  the  boy 
one  beating  he  thrashed  him  every  time  she  had  a  fresh 
fit.  This  treatment  developed  in  my  grandfather  a 
determination  to  leave  home.  He  said  to  his  father : 
"  I  am  going  to  Kentucky.  I  am  too  old  to  be  thrashed, 
and  no  house  is  big  enough  to  hold  both  Uncle  John 
and  me."  His  father  answered,  very  quietly:  "Then 
you  had  better  go,  for  John  is  our  kin;  I  cannot  ask 
him  to  leave  my  house." 

Young  Duval  loyally  said,  "I  don't  expect  you  to, 
sir,  I  will  leave  the  house  to  him." 

He  began  then  to  develop  his  fine  character  of  sus- 
tained courage  and  dogged  resolution.  The  winter 


io  My  Beloved  South 

passed  without  his  speaking  again  of  leaving  home,  but 
he  kept  to  his  determination. 

Aunt  Barbara,  quite  recovered,  saw  a  change  in  her 
boy,  and  was  most  attentive  to  him,  saying,  "I  did  n't 
mind,  honey.  I  knowed  you  did  n't  mean  to  hurt  old 
Barbara.  I  jus*  wants  you  to  run  roun'  an*  laugh  like 
you  use  ter.  You  studies  too  much  to  suit  me.  What 
you  thinkin'  'bout,  chile?" 

"Aunt  Barbara,"  said  the  boy,  "I  'm  going  to  Ken- 
tucky next  month." 

"Now,"  said  Aunt  Barbara,  quite  ashey-looking, 
"who  ever  heard  de  beat  ob  dat?  Ain't  Virginia, 
where  you  wuz  born  an'  raised,  good  enough  for  you? 
An'  (breaking  down)  I  wuz  wid  yo'  ma  when  you  wuz 
born.  I  held  you  in  dese  arms  when  you  wuz  a  hour 
old.  I  knows  I  bin  strict  wid  you,  I  bleeged  to  be, 
but  you  jus*  like  my  own  chile.  Oh,  honey,  don't  go 
'way.  Jus'  go  out  on  de  common  an'  ketch  dat  brayin' 
jackass,  an*  I  promise  you,  he  kin  stay  a  week  in  de 
smoke-house." 

Aunt  Barbara  began  to  cry  and  these  two  were  friends 
again.  But  the  steady  look  never  left  the  boy's  face, 
and  in  May,  when  the  trees  were  green  and  the  flowers 
in  blossom,  he  said  to  his  father,  "I  am  leaving  for 
Kentucky  to-day.  Will  you  give  me  an  outfit,  sir?" 

His  father  looked  disappointed  and  said,  "I  thought 
you  had  given  up  that  foolish  idea,"  but  opening  a  desk, 
he  took  out  a  long  green  silk  knitted  purse,  filled  with 
gold,  and  handed  it  to  the  boy. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  lad,  "and  of  course  I  will 
take  my  servant  and  my  horse." 

"No,"  said  the  father,  "you  don't  know  how  to  take 
care  of  yourself.  You  are  not  to  be  trusted  with  a 
slave  and  a  saddle-horse.  If  you  go,  you  go  alone." 


William  Peyton  Duval  n 

"Then,"  the  boy  said  proudly,  "I  will  make  my  way 
as  best  I  can." 

Probably  his  father  thought  hardships  and  discom- 
forts would  soon  bring  him  back  to  Virginia.  His  only 
sister,  a  sweet  little  girl,  clung  round  his  neck  in  tears, 
and  he  had  to  gulp  back  a  few  of  his  own,  which  he 
managed  to  do. 

"When  are  you  coming  back?"  said  his  little  sister, 
when  at  last  he  was  ready  to  start. 

"Never,  by  heaven,"  he  said,  "until  I  come  back  a 
Member  of  Congress  from  Kentucky." 

And  he  fulfilled  that  promise.  The  little  sister 
grew  up,  married,  went  to  Texas  to  live,  and  became 
the  mother  of  five  sons.  They  all  fought  in  the  Con- 
federate army  and  not  one  returned  to  the  broken- 
hearted mother.  Her  eldest  son,  William  Howard,  a 
very  brilliant  and  attractive  young  lawyer,  studied  law 
with  my  father.  He  was  one  of  the  first  officers  killed 
at  Fort  Sumter. 

On  the  way  to  Kentucky  the  lad  had  the  first  oppor- 
tunity of  showing  the  true  metal  of  his  fine  courage. 
He  had  stopped  at  an  eating-house  and  heard  two 
rough  men  say  he  was  probably  a  runaway  apprentice 
and  should  be  stopped.  After  he  had  finished  his 
dinner  he  went  quietly  out  of  the  back  door,  but  think- 
ing it  cowardly  to  steal  away,  he  turned  and  walked 
boldly  to  the  front  door. 

"Where  are  you  going,  boy?"  said  one  of  the 
men. 

"That 's  none  of  your  business,"  said  the  boy. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  the  man,  "you're  a  runaway." 
And  he  came  forward  to  seize  him,  but  the  lad  whipped 
out  his  pistol,  and  pointing  it  said,  "If  you  lay  a  hand 
upon  me  I  '11  shoot  you!"  The  man  stepped  back  very 


12  My  Beloved  South 

quickly  and  his  companion  said,  "He  's  dangerous, 
let  him  alone." 

After  this  he  was  afraid  of  civilisation  and  tried 
camping  out  at  night,  and  stopping  at  inns  for  his 
meals  during  the  day.  At  Brownsville  he  arrived  tired, 
soiled,  and  looking  like  a  young  tramp.  The  proprietor 
of  the  inn  demurred  at  receiving  him,  but  his  wife  dis- 
cerning that  he  was  a  gentleman  in  spite  of  his  dusty 
appearance  said  gently,  "Have  you  a  mother?" 

"No,"  said  the  boy,  "my  mother  is  dead." 

"Ah,  that 's  the  trouble,"  she  said  to  her  husband, 
"we  are  told  to  care  for  orphans.  Come  in,  and 
welcome." 

After  resting  with  this  good  lady  a  few  days,  the 
boy  continued  his  journey  upon  a  flat-bottomed  boat 
from  Wheeling,  which  slowly  floated  down  the  Ohio. 
The  river  in  those  days,  overhung  on  either  side  by 
primeval  forest  and  almost  impenetrable  canebrakes, 
was  filled  with  game  of  all  sorts.  Deer  and  bear  un- 
afraid swam  across  the  river,  and  bronze  flocks  of  wild 
turkeys  sailed  slowly  overhead.  Cincinnati,  that  most 
populous  queen  of  the  West,  was  only  a  straggling 
group  of  log  cabins,  and  Louisville  was  scarcely  settled. 
Where  the  Green  River  and  the  Ohio  meet,  the  boy 
landed  and  started  his  march  for  the  interior  of 
Kentucky. 

He  had  relations  in  Lexington,  but  he  did  not  make 
himself  known  to  them,  for  his  pride  was  wounded. 
He  wanted  to  show  his  father  what  independence  could 
accomplish.  He  camped  at  night  by  beautiful  crystal 
streams  and  shot  turkey,  smaller  birds,  and  squirrels 
by  day,  roasting  them  by  fires  made  of  underbrush 
and  dry  forest  wood. 

His  first  taste  of  the  real  hunter's  silent  joy  was 


William  Peyton  Duval  13 

when  he  came  upon  a  pack  of  wolves  devouring  the 
carcass  of  a  deer.  One  big  greedy  fellow  ate  more  than 
the  others,  snapping  and  snarling  when  they  came  too 
near,  and  the  boy  said  to  himself,  "A  prize,  that  leader 
of  the  pack,  I  shall  try  for  him."  He  loaded  his  rifle 
and  shot  him  twice  while  the  other  wolves  ran  yelping 
away.  Then,  he  said,  a  feeling  of  triumph  came  over 
him  as  though  he  were  lord  of  all  that  leafy  forest. 
But  the  deer,  even  when  quite  near  him,  he  could  never 
bring  down.  They  seemed  ever  running.  A  whole 
herd  had  just  gone  by  in  a  wild  scamper  and  he  was 
gazing  longingly  after  them  when  he  heard  a  voice  say, 
"What  are  you  after,  Sonny?" 

"Those  deer,"  said  the  boy;  "are  they  ever  still?" 

"Reckon  you  're  a  bit  green,  sonny;  where  are  you 
from?" 

"Richmond,"  said  the  boy. 

"What,  not  Richmond  of  my  old  Virginny?" 

"Yes,  I  am,"  said  the  boy. 

"And  how,"  said  the  man,  "did  you  git  here?" 

"I  came  down  the  Ohio  and  landed  at  Green  River," 
said  the  boy. 

"All  by  your  lone  self?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy,  "I  am  by  myself." 

"Where  be  you  goin'?"  said  the  man. 

"I  'm  going  to  hunt,"  said  the  boy. 

"Then,"  said  the  backwoodsman,  looking  at  him 
kindly,  "come  along  er  me,  I  '11  make  a  hunter  out  of 
you.  Me  and  my  wife  don't  live  fur  from  here.  Killed 
anything?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy,  "wild  turkeys  and  squirrels." 

"But,"  said  the  man,  "can't  come  it  on  a  deer — you 
must  step  like  a  panther  on  padded  feet  to  do  that. 
Nary  a  twig  must  n't  crackle  under  yo'  feet.  Deers  is 


14  My  Beloved  South 

got  the  quickest  ears  in  the  forest.  You  Lave  to  creep 
up  on  'em,  and  then  sometimes  they  gits  away." 

Bill  Smithers  lived  with  his  wife  and  baby  in  a  log 
cabin  with  no  chimney,  but  just  a  square  hole  for  the 
smoke  to  escape.  While  the  trees  were  being  girdled 
preparatory  to  clearing  the  land,  the  food  consisted  of 
fish  from  the  brooks,  game  from  the  forests,  and  luscious 
berries.  This  generous  woodsman  was  the  boy's  first 
teacher  in  hunting  and  woodcraft,  making,  my  grand- 
father said,  all  of  his  boyish  dreams  come  true.  The 
forests  with  giant  trees  were  magnificent,  the  wide 
prairies,  covered  with  wild  flowers,  were  fragrant  blossom- 
ing gardens.  The  woods  were  rich  in  wild  strawberries 
and  blackberries,  for  nature  in  Kentucky  was  then,  as 
now,  prodigal  of  her  bounty. 

But  he  did  not  stay  long  with  Smithers,  finding  a 
solitary  bachelor  called  Miller,  a  famous  hunter,  who 
was  glad  to  have  a  willing  apprentice.  Under  him  he 
became  a  good  shot,  and  past  master  of  the  ways  and 
secrets  of  the  wilderness.  The  buffalo  were  in  Ken- 
tucky then,  and  had  just  begun  to  migrate  for  safety 
to  the  West.  The  boy's  first  success  in  big  game  hunt- 
ing was  to  kill  a  bear.  He,  two  brothers,  and  a  dog 
were  out  together.  Seeing  the  shaggy  beast  climbing 
a  tree,  he  sent  a  shot  near  his  heart.  Bruin  fell  to  the 
ground  and  the  dog,  giving  a  joyous  bark,  ran  up  to 
investigate.  The  bear,  with  one  last  effort,  clasped 
the  dog  round  its  neck.  They  died  together.  My 
grandfather  said  the  two  simple-hearted  hunters  buried 
their  friend,  crying  like  children. 

The  hunters  lived  far  apart.  They  wanted  elbow 
room,  and  only  occasionally  came  together,  when  they 
sat  for  hours  silently  smoking  like  Indians.  But  the 
light  of  the  big  fires  at  night  warmed  them  at  last  into 


William  Peyton  Duval  15 

story-telling.  The  young  Virginian,  a  good  listener, 
with  his  frankness,  courage,  good-humour  and  adap- 
tability, soon  became  a  great  favourite,  especially  with 
his  host,  who  loved  him  like  a  son. 

There  was  one  event  my  Aunt  Elizabeth  said  my 
grandfather  loved  to  describe — a  dance  at  the  house  of 
a  famous  fiddler,  Bob  Mosely.  The  only  suit  of  clothes 
the  young  man  possessed  was  his  leather  breeches  and 
coat,  which  were  soiled  with  hunting  grease.  He 
thought  that  with  a  good  scouring  they  might  be  made 
to  serve  for  the  party,  so  he  carried  them  to  a  stream, 
washed  them,  and  hung  them  to  dry,  while  he  rested 
himself  on  the  bank  of  the  river.  But  the  sticks  upon 
which  the  clothes  were  stretched  toppled  and  fell  into 
the  river,  carrying  their  burden  with  them,  and  there 
the  young  man  was  left  for  the  remainder  of  the  after- 
noon to  fashion,  like  Adam,  a  garment  of  leaves  in 
which  to  go  home. 

Old  Miller  was  horrified  when  he  saw  his  young 
friend's  misfortune  and  heard  that  he  could  not  attend 
the  dance.  He  said,  "  You  '11  not  only  go,  but  you  shall 
be  the  best  dressed  of  all  the  boys."  He  then  began  to 
work  day  and  night  and  made  a  soft  deerskin  hunting 
shirt,  fringed  on  the  shoulders,  with  leggings  of  the 
same  skin  fringed  from  top  to  bottom.  Wearing  these 
splendid  garments  and  a  raccoon  cap  with  two  tails 
floating  out  behind,  he  presented  a  very  fine  figure 
indeed.  All  the  hunters  were  garbed  in  the  same  sort 
of  clothes  and  the  girls  wore  doeskin  dresses. 

About  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  the  party 
was  at  its  height,  the  two  Misses  Schultz  made  a  stage 
entrance,  with  red  ribbons  and  tiny  looking-glasses 
hung  round  their  necks,  which  a  stray  pedlar  had  given 
them  in  gratitude  for  a  few  days'  hospitality.  The 


1 6  My  Beloved  South 

simple  people  at  the  party  had  never  seen  looking- 
glasses  before,  and  the  girls,  Sukey  and  Patty  Schultz, 
were  such  belles  that  the  other  girls  jealously  threatened 
to  go  home.  Young  Duval,  gifted  with  tact,  explained 
in  flattering  words  the  situation  to  the  Misses  Schultz, 
telling  them  that  their  charms  and  looking-glasses 
combined  would  break  up  the  party,  and  begged  them 
to  allow  him  to  hang  the  ribbons  and  ornaments  on 
the  wall  until  the  dance  ended.  When  this  was  done, 
peace  was  at  once  restored. 

About  this  time  the  young  hunter  grew  dissatisfied 
and  restless.  His  mind  began  to  crave  intellectual 
food.  A  famous  woodsman  came  to  him  and  said: 
"A  bunch  of  us  are  going  West.  Kentuck  's  too 
crowded.  Neighbours  are  only  fourteen  miles  off  and 
I  have  n't  breathing  room.  Will  you  join  us,  Duval?" 
This  induced  the  boy  to  go  through  a  self-examination. 
He  asked  himself:  "Am  I  going  to  remain  a  hunter  all 
my  days?  No,  the  woods  are  for  the  true  woodsman 
who  desires  no  other  life.  My  people  have  always 
belonged  to  the  world.  I  must  get  back  to  it." 

The  question  then  arose  as  to  what  he  should  do. 
He  decided  on  the  profession  of  law.  He  felt  that  if 
he  had  wasted  time  in  the  great  forests,  he  had  never- 
theless laid  up  a  store  of  health,  strength,  cheerfulness, 
and  quickness  of  vision  in  observing  the  human  and 
animal  species.  He  knew  he  had  dogged  determination 
when  he  undertook  a  task.  He  always  said  that  if  a 
man  with  ordinary  capacity  worked  unswervingly, 
heart  and  soul,  at  anything,  he  could  succeed  in  it. 

He  still  had  his  silken  purse  filled  with  gold,  and  he 
could  sell  his  pile  of  beaver  and  other  skins  and  the  fine 
horse  which  he  had  obtained  in  exchange  for  furs. 
With  this  money  he  calculated  to  live  until  he  was 


William  Peyton  Duval  17 

admitted  to  the  Bar.  When  he  spoke  to  Miller,  the 
old  man  was  deeply  grieved.  He  could  understand 
but  one  life,  that  of  the  hunter,  but  he  loved  the  boy 
too  well  to  discourage  him. 

The  following  day  the  young  man  rode  to  Bardstown, 
stopped  at  a  small  inn  over  night,  and  found  a  family 
who  would  take  him  to  board  for  a  dollar  and  a  half  a 
week.  The  next  morning  he  intended  riding  back  to 
Miller's  to  get  his  little  fortune  of  five  hundred  dollars, 
and  was  waiting  on  the  hotel  piazza  for  his  horse  to  be 
brought  round  to  him  when  he  saw  sitting  in  the  parlour 
a  vision  of  loveliness.  A  young  girl  was  there,  fair  as 
alabaster,  with  thick  auburn  hair,  deep  blue  eyes,  tall, 
slender,  and  dressed  all  in  white.  After  the  sunburnt, 
rosy-cheeked  maids  of  the  woods  this  girl  seemed  some- 
thing delicate  and  unreal.  He  longed  to  speak  to  her, 
but  did  not  dare.  Then  he  longed  still  more,  with  all 
his  clean  young  blood  aflame,  to  kiss  her.  "Just 
once,"  he  said,  "it  will  be  a  memory  of  bliss  to  carry 
with  me  all  through  life,  and  if  I  don't  get  it  I  shall 
certainly  die  of  longing."  He  stepped  into  the  room. 
She  was  looking  dreamily  out  of  the  window,  when  he 
walked  up  behind  her,  touched  her  gently  on  the  shoul- 
der, and  she  looked  up.  He  stooped  and  kissed  her 
on  the  mouth,  then  made  a  rush  for  the  door,  ran  across 
the  balcony,  down  the  steps,  vaulted  lightly  to  his 
saddle,  lifted  his  hat,  made  her  a  low  bow  and  dashed 
off  madly  to  the  woods. 

When  he  got  to  the  log  cabin  he  sold  his  horse  and 
walked  back  to  Bardstown,  where  he  settled  himself 
and  began  to  study  law.  He  read  sixteen  and  eighteen 
hours  out  of  the  twenty-four  and  sometimes  all  night 
as  well  as  all  day.  He  found  he  had  so  much  to  study 
besides  law.  He  grew  serious  and  morose  with  inces- 


1 8  My  Beloved  South 

sant  work  and  the  sudden  change  from  outdoor  life  to 
continual  confinement.  But  he  kept  doggedly  on  for 
a  year,  and  then  there  came  a  slight  interruption,  for 
one  day  while  taking  a  walk  he  passed  on  the  street  the 
only  girl  he  had  ever  kissed.  His  heart  gave  two  or 
three  quick  thumps  and  for  days  the  little  beauty's 
face  came  obstinately  between  him  and  his  books,  but 
he  studied  harder  than  ever  and  took  no  more  walks. 

One  cold  rainy  evening  the  young  student  had  gone 
to  the  bar  of  the  inn  and  was  sitting  by  the  fire  when  a 
gentleman,  tall,  distinguished  looking  and  handsomely 
dressed,  entered.  He  wore  small-clothes,  silver  knee- 
buckles,  his  hair  powdered  and  tied  in  a  queue,  and 
neat  polished  shoes.  He  asked  the  young  man  if  his 
name  was  Duval.  The  boy,  tired  and  depressed,  said 
moodily,  "Yes." 

"And  do  you,"  said  the  gentleman,  "come  from 
Richmond?" 

"I  do,"  said  the  boy,  "but  what  is  that  to  you?" 

"Nothing,  good-night." 

Next  day,  however,  the  gentleman,  the  pink  of 
elegance  and  courtesy,  called  on  the  boy.  He  said  he 
was  a  friend  of  his  father's,  that  he  had  heard  of  the 
struggle  he  was  making,  and  would  take  him  in  his 
office  and  direct  his  studies  if  he  would  come.  Young 
William,  apologising  for  his  previous  churlishness, 
gratefully  accepted  the  offer,  and  a  little  later  went  to 
live  at  the  house  of  his  friend,  who  was  one  of  the  leading 
lawyers  of  Kentucky.  From  that  time  life  went  easier 
for  him.  His  reading  was  properly  directed,  he  joined 
a  debating  society,  was  its  most  brilliant  speaker,  and 
was  soon  hailed  as  a  coming  genius. 

One  evening  at  a  little  party  he  met  the  auburn- 
haired  beauty  and  was  introduced  to  her  as  "Miss 


William  Peyton  Duval  19 

Nancy  Hynes."  Her  mother  was  a  Miss  Stuart  from 
Scotland  who  had  married  a  Kentuckian,  and  it  was 
from  Scotland  she  had  got  her  red  hair.  People  in  the 
room  began  to  talk,  and  they  left  the  young  couple 
practically  alone.  William  was  terribly  embarrassed. 
Then  he  said,  "  Don't  you  see  how  uncomfortable  I  am? 
Can't  you  say  something,  anything  to  help  me  out?" 

The  girl's  dimples  all  appeared  and  she  said,  "What 
do  you  want  me  to  say?" 

He  answered:  "Not  that  you  forgive  me — for  I  don't 
want  forgiveness.  If  I  had  it  to  do  over  again,  by 
heaven,  I  would  do  it,  even  if  I  died  for  it." 

They  met  frequently  at  dances  at  the  houses  of 
friends,  and  before  the  young  man  was  nineteen  he  was 
engaged  to  the  girl  of  seventeen.  Her  mother,  a  widow, 
objected  on  the  score  of  their  youth,  but  he  told  her  he 
would  marry  her  daughter,  and  very  soon,  if  all  the 
world  rose  up  in  defiance.  The  mother  liked  this 
grave,  romantic  wooer,  and  said  she  knew  all  about  him 
and  his  family,  and  that  he  would  only  have  to  wait  a 
reasonable  time.  He  then  studied  harder  than  ever, 
with  a  prospect  of  a  wife  and  home  before  him. 

In  the  meantime  his  father,  hearing  where  he  was, 
wrote  to  say  he  would  give  him  a  liberal  allowance  if 
he  would  soon  go  to  college.  He  talked  it  over  with 
his  sweetheart  and  the  wise  young  maiden  advised  him 
to  go,  but  just  as  he  was  starting  for  the  Virginia  Uni- 
versity, Nancy's  mother  died  suddenly,  leaving  her 
with  a  younger  sister,  my  great-aunt,  Polly  Hynes,  a 
little  girl  away  at  a  boarding-school.  The  chivalrous 
lad  felt  his  promised  bride  needed  a  protector,  so  he 
gave  up  the  idea  of  college,  was  admitted  to  the  Bar 
that  autumn,  and  married  immediately  afterwards. 

Fate  is  kind  to  some  mortals.     These  married  sweet- 


20  My  Beloved  South 

hearts  ever  remained  lovers.  They  were  poor,  for 
Nancy  could  not  touch  her  small  fortune  until  she  came 
of  age,  and  my  grandfather  had  nothing.  They  lived 
in  a  little  two-roomed  log  house,  and  my  grandfather 
said,  "Everything  we  had  was  in  half-dozens;  a  half-a- 
dozen  spoons  and  forks  and  knives  and  chairs,  a  bed, 
a  table,  a  sofa,  a  dozen  books  and  a  little  rocking-chair 
and  work-table  for  my  girl  wife.  We  were  so  poor,  but 
so  happy." 


CHAPTER  II 

YOUTHS  GLAD  SUCCESS 

To  the  wholly  intrepid  spirit  is  given  Courage  in  life;  Courage  in 
danger;  Courage  in  death. 

THEY  had  only  been  married  a  week  when  court 
was  held  at  a  country  town  twenty-five  miles 
away.  It  was  hard  for  William  Duval  to  leave  his 
pretty  bride,  and  he  had  no  money,  but  he  borrowed  a 
little,  and  a  horse  from  a  neighbour  and,  like  young 
Lochinvar,  rode  gaily  away.  Fate  loves  reckless  cour- 
age and  protects  its  possessors.  The  young  lawyer  had 
no  case  to  plead  before  the  court  and  no  influence  to 
get  him  one,  but  just  as  he  entered  the  inn  an  old  man 
in  the  barroom  was  struck  by  a  bully.  The  young 
man  promptly  knocked  the  bully  down.  This  secured 
his  popularity.  The  crowd  shook  hands  with  the 
plucky  stranger  and  plied  him  with  drinks,  which  he 
had  the  judgment  to  refuse,  for  he  felt  the  morrow  would 
be  a  momentous  day  for  him. 

The  next  morning  when  the  court  opened,  he  boldly 
seated  himself  among  the  advocates.  A  man  was 
charged  with  passing  counterfeit  money.  He  had 
been  out  of  the  range  of  lawyers  and  was  asked  to 
choose  one  for  his  defence.  Looking  around,  he 
selected  the  eager  faced  lad,  who  was  given  until  next 
day  to  prepare  his  case.  As  they  left  the  court  the 

21 


22  My  Beloved  South 

accused  man  gave  his  counsel  one  hundred  dollars  as  a 
retaining  fee. 

Young  Duval  spent  many  hours  in  anxious  prepara- 
tion of  his  defence  and  argument.  When  night  came 
he  was  too  excited  to  speak;  in  the  morning  he  could 
not  eat.  He  reached  the  court  agitated  and  unnerved, 
and  when  he  began  to  speak  it  was  only  to  flounder  and 
stammer.  Presently  the  public  prosecutor  made  a 
cruelly  sarcastic  remark.  There  was  a  laugh  in 
court.  At  that  his  nerves  became  taut  and  steady. 
His  voice  rang  out  with  a  brave  challenge.  He  mar- 
shalled his  facts  with  telling  effect  and  proved  his 
client's  innocence  conclusively.  The  case  ended  tri- 
umphantly in  the  man's  acquittal,  and  young  Duval 
was  made.  His  earnestness  and  eloquence  had  stirred 
even  the  lawyers.  His  youth,  his  courage,  his  knowl- 
edge of  law  were  discussed.  Other  cases  were  given 
him,  and  when  the  week  ended  he  had  made  seven 
hundred  dollars.  The  night  the  fees  were  paid  him 
he  was  like  a  miser.  He  locked  his  bedroom  door  and 
let  the  gold  trickle  through  his  fingers;  he  piled  it  up 
and  saw  in  its  glitter  a  rosy  future  of  comfort  for  his 
wife  and  of  gratified  ambition  for  himself. 

The  next  morning  before  dawn,  he  mounted  the 
borrowed  horse  and  started  for  Bardstown.  His  wife 
had  prepared  a  delicious  breakfast  for  him,  but  he  was 
too  excited  to  eat.  Like  the  boy  that  he  was,  he  wanted 
to  surprise  her,  and  he  sat  down  at  the  table  and  began 
slowly  counting  out  the  money  in  ten-dollar  gold  pieces. 
His  wife  looked  on  and  said,  "Whose  money  is  it? 
Have  you  got  to  take  it  to  the  bank?" 

"It  is  my  money!"  said  my  grandfather,  "mine  and 
yours!  Oh  Nancy,  come  and  dance  and  sing  and  cry." 
And  together  they  laughed  and  waltzed  round  the 


Youth's  Glad  Success  23 

room,  like  the  children  they  were,  for  poverty  had  gone 
out  of  the  window,  and  success  had  come  in  at  the  door. 

Later,  my  grandfather  was  elected  to  Congress  from 
Kentucky,  as  he  said  he  would  be,  and  on  his  return  to 
the  States  was  appointed  Judge  of  the  Federal  Court, 
which  office  he  retained  for  some  years.  By  this  time 
three  of  his  eight  children  had  been  added  to  the  family. 
In  those  days  the  Floridas  were  a  territory,  and  the 
Indians  being  somewhat  troublesome  a  man  of  courage, 
decision,  and  heart  was  wanted  for  governor.  The 
appointment  was  offered  to  my  grandfather,  who 
retained  the  office  for  twenty-four  years.  The  young- 
est five  children  were  born  in  Florida  and  the  last 
pretty  little  girl  was  named  after  that  land  of  flowers. 

The  new  governor  kept  open  house.  All  the  year 
carriages  drove  back  and  forth,  and  people  came  and 
went  as  if  it  had  been  a  hotel.  Christmas  and  Easter 
were  different  from  other  seasons  only  in  more  turkeys 
and  game,  larger  cakes,  more  egg-nog,  and  greater 
quantities  of  punch. 

Three  of  my  aunts  and  my  mother  were  all  celebrated 
beauties,  my  mother  inheriting  the  Scotch  hair,  a  dark 
auburn,  and  the  deep  blue  eyes  of  her  mother.  My 
grandfather  was  always  hospitable  to  the  admirers  of 
his  daughters.  They  could  spend  the  day,  or  even,  if 
they  felt  inclined,  several  days,  but  at  ten  o'clock  each 
night  old  Scipio,  the  negro  butler,  was  required  to  see 
that  the  drawing-room  was  closed  and  the  piazzas 
cleared. 

Scipio  made  his  appearance  dressed  in  a  swallow- 
tailed  coat,  his  hair  tied  like  my  grandfather's  in  a 
queue  (a  strain  of  Indian  blood  had  given  him  straight 
hair),  and  bearing  an  enormous  waiter,  with  a  large, 
noisily  ticking  silver  watch  lying  upon  it  and  numerous 


24  My  Beloved  South 

mint  juleps.  The  suitors  were  supposed  to  observe 
the  time,  drink  the  juleps,  say  good-night  and  go  home. 

Life  in  Florida  in  those  days  must  have  been  enchant- 
ing. There  were  fruit  and  vegetables  all  the  year 
round,  oranges  for  the  picking,  peaches  and  melons  in 
great  abundance.  The  Indians  constantly  brought 
in  all  kinds  of  game;  the  woods  were  full  of  wild  orchids 
and  myriads  of  wild  flowers,  and  the  pink  cranes  and 
scarlet  flamingoes  were  quite  tame  on  the  banks  of  the 
little  river  that  flowed  at  the  bottom  of  the  grounds. 

In  1823,  Governor  Duval  rendered  signal  service  to 
the  territory  of  Florida  and  to  the  United  States 
Government  by  putting  down  the  conspiracy  of  Nea- 
mathla,  one  of  the  most  noted  Indians  in  American 
history.  Pie  was  the  chief  of  the  Mickasookies,  a 
fighting  tribe  of  warriors,  who  had  their  hands  not  only 
against  the  wmV  man,  but  against  the  weaker  Indian 
as  well.  They  had  committed  many  depredations  on 
the  frontiers  of  Georgia  and  were  constantly  attacking 
the  Seminoles,  a  peaceful  and  picturesque  tribe,  who 
gave  the  Government  no  trouble,  but  sought  (unless 
influenced  by  the  Mickasookies)  its  protection. 

Neamathla  was  a  splendid  figure,  more  than  six 
feet  in  height,  with  fierce  fiery  eyes  and  a  face  like  a 
hawk.  He  hated  white  men  and  proudly  called 
Governor  Duval  "brother,"  never  acknowledging  his 
superiority. 

The  Indians  at  this  time,  chiefly  through  the  gover- 
nor's influence,  had  signed  a  treaty  to  remove  to  a 
small  section  of  land  in  the  eastern  part  of  Florida  and 
to  remain  there  for  twenty  years,  thus  leaving  the 
remainder  of  the  State  free  to  the  white  man.  Nea- 
mathla fought  bitterly  against  the  treaty,  but  finally 
signed  it,  saying  quite  frankly:  "If  I  had  enough  war- 


Courage  in  Life  25 

riors,  brother,  instead  of  signing  the  treaty,  I  would 
wipe  every  white  man  from  the  face  of  Florida.  I  say 
this  to  you,  for  though  you  are  white,  you  are  a  Man. 
Your  pale-faced  people  would  n't  understand  me." 

Thinking  it  wise  to  be  near  the  Indians,  Governor 
Duval  had  settled  at  Tallahassee.  The  village  of 
Neamathla  being  only  three  miles  away,  he  often 
rode  out  to  have  a  pow-wow  with  him.  One  day  he 
found  him  surrounded  by  all  his  warriors,  drinking 
brandy  freely.  Neamathla  began  to  boast  that 
although  the  red  man  had  made  a  treaty,  the  treaty  was 
at  an  end,  "broken  by  the  white  man,  who  had  not 
delivered  the  cattle  and  money  promised." 

The  Governor  replied,  "The  time  for  the  money  and 
cattle  has  not  yet  arrived."  But  the  old  chief  only 
looked  sly  and  continued  to  drink  and  threaten.  He 
had  been  cutting  tobacco  with  a  long  knife,  and  while 
he  was  talking  he  flourished  his  keen  blade  not  an  inch 
away  from  the  Governor's  throat,  saying  the  country 
was  the  red  man's,  that  it  should  belong  to  him,  and  he 
would  fight  for  it  until  his  bones,  and  the  bones  of  his 
warriors  bleached  upon  its  soil. 

Suddenly  and  unexpectedly  the  Governor  seized  him 
by  the  bosom  of  his  shirt,  clenched  his  fist  in  his  face, 
and  said:  "You  have  made  your  treaty.  You  shall 
keep  it.  I  am  your  White  Chief  sent  by  your  father  in 
Washington  to  see  that  you  do  it.  If  you  do  not,  the 
blood  of  every  Indian  in  the  country  will  dye  the  land, 
and  his  bones  will  bleach  upon  its  soil." 

The  old  chief  threw  himself  back  with  a  bitter  laugh. 
"Ho,  ho,  little  white  brother!"  he  said,  "can't  you  see 
my  joke?" 

My  grandfather  returned  to  Tallahassee,  and  things 
went  smoothly  for  several  months.  Every  day  some 


26  My  Beloved  South 

of  the  Indians  reported  themselves  at  the  Governor's 
house,  but  suddenly  their  visits  ceased,  and  at  mid- 
night of  the  fourth  day  after  this,  Yellow  Hair,  a  young 
brave  who  loved  the  White  Chief,  stole  into  the  house. 
"Governor,"  he  said,  "at  the  risk  of  my  life  I  've  come 
to  tell  you  that  five  hundred  warriors  are  holding  a 
secret  war  talk  with  Neamathla." 

There  was  no  more  sleep  that  night  for  Governor 
Duval;  he  saw  that  he  must  take  a  desperate  chance. 
There  were  one  hundred  white  families  near,  and  he 
had  no  soldiers.  Everything  depended  on  himself. 
At  dawn  he  was  up,  and,  mounting  a  fleet  horse,  called 
upon  the  interpreter,  De  Witt,  to  follow. 

The  man  demurred.  "Wait,  Governor,"  he  said, 
"until  we  can  get  the  militia." 

"No,"  said  my  grandfather,  "there  is  not  a  moment 
to  lose,  we  must  ride  fast."  And  they  struck  for  the 
Indian  village  to  what  De  Witt  thought  was  certain 
death. 

"The  chiefs,"  he  said,  "are  old,  discontented,  sus- 
picious and  exasperated .  They  intend  serious  mischief. ' ' 

Finally  my  grandfather  said,  "Go  back,  man,  and 
leave  me  to  go  on  alone." 

"  No,"  said  De  Witt,  "  I  won't  leave  you  to  die  alone, 
but  God!  what  a  foolhardy  expedition." 

They  rode  on  in  silence,  and  when  they  neared  the 
village  my  grandfather  said  sternly,  "Translate  word 
for  word  what  I  say  to  you.  Only  courage  can  save  us 
now." 

There  was  a  great  council  fire,  and  Neamathla  was 
sitting  on  a  rude  throne  surrounded  by  his  warriors. 
The  Governor  rode  straight  into  the  circle,  while  forty 
rifles  were  cocked  and  levelled  at  him.  He  slowly  dis- 
mounted, looked  Neamathla  fearlessly  in  the  eyes, 


Courage  in  Life  27 

and,  with  a  gesture  of  contempt,  stood  waiting.  The 
old  chief  threw  up  his  arm;  the  guns  were  lowered. 
The  Governor  then  walked  up  to  Neamathla  and 
asked  why  he  was  holding  a  council  of  war.  The  old 
chief  was  silent. 

The  White  Chief  said,  "You  need  not  answer.  I 
know;  but  if  a  single  hair  of  the  head  of  a  white  man  in 
this  country  is  harmed" — he  made  a  mighty  sweeping 
gesture  with  his  arm — "I  will  hang  every  chief  to  the 
trees  that  surround  you.  The  Great  Father  in  Wash- 
ington holds  you  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  He  has 
only  to  close  it  and  you  are  dead.  I  am  but  one  man. 
You  may  kill  me,  but  the  white  man  is  as  many  as  the 
leaves  on  this  oak.  Remember  your  warriors,  whose 
bones  have  made  the  battlefields  white.  Remember 
your  wives  and  your  children  dead  in  the  swamps. 
Another  war  with  the  white  man,  and  there  will  not 
be  one  Indian  left  to  tell  the  story  to  his  children." 

His  words  had  effect.  They  sat  still  and  silent. 
Then  he  appointed  a  day  for  them  to  meet  him  in  St. 
Mark's  and  rode  forty  miles  straight  ahead  to  the 
Apalachicolas,  a  friendly  tribe  who  were  at  feud  with 
the  Mickasookies.  They  immediately  sent  three  hun- 
dred warriors  to  St.  Mark's.  He  summoned  also  the 
regular  army  and  the  militia,  and  was  then  ready  for 
Neamathla.  Yellow  Hair  came  again  in  the  dead  of 
night  to  tell  the  Governor  that  nine  towns  concerned 
in  the  conspiracy  were  disaffected,  and  from  him  he 
found  out  the  names  of  the  chiefs  in  these  towns  who 
were  popular,  but  without  power. 

On  the  day  of  the  conference  he  rode  out  to  meet 
Neamathla,  who,  although  at  the  head  of  eight  hundred 
Indians,  was  afraid  to  venture  into  the  court  of  St. 
Mark's  alone.  He  thought  when  he  saw  the  troops 


28  My  Beloved  South 

and  the  preparations  that  he  had  been  betrayed,  but 
was  reassured  when  the  Governor  rode  by  his  side  and 
told  him  when  the  talk  was  ended  that  he  could  go  home 
free. 

Neamathla  and  the  older  chiefs  blamed  the  younger 
ones  who  had  led  them  into  conspiracy.  "Then," 
said  my  grandfather,  "if  you  cannot  govern  your 
braves  you  must,  like  the  white  man,  find  men  who  can. 
I  depose  you,  Neamathla,  and  appoint  Little  Bear  in 
your  place."  And  with  great  ceremony  a  broad  ribbon 
sewn  with  beads,  from  which  a  large  medal  of  the  Capitol 
depended,  was  hung  around  the  neck  of  a  younger 
chief. 

In  this  way  nine  chiefs  were  deposed  and  popular 
braves  appointed  in  their  place.  The  Indians  were 
delighted;  they  thought  my  grandfather  a  prophet  to 
have  divined  their  choice.  The  new  warriors,  he  was 
confident,  would  keep  an  eye  on  the  disaffected,  and 
would  remain  loyal  to  the  Government  and  to  him. 

Neamathla  left  the  country  and  returned  to  the 
Creek  nation,  who  made  him  a  chief,  but,  shorn  of  his 
great  power,  he  soon  died  of  disappointment.  The 
Governor's  achievement  of  defeating  alone  and  unaided 
a  conspiracy  which  would  have  brought  about  a  terrible 
massacre,  was  a  valiant  and  heroic  act.  In  later  years 
with  no  military  escort,  he  was  able  to  remove,  through 
their  confidence  in  him,  all  the  Indians  from  Florida 
to  the  Indian  Territory — thus  saving  the  Government 
at  Washington  great  trouble  and  expense. 

When  the  question  of  the  Indians  was  settled,  he 
devoted  himself  to  the  development  of  the  State. 
His  children  were  being  educated  in  Kentucky.  The 
girls  went  to  the  Convent  of  Nazareth  in  Bardstown, 
and  the  boys  to  St.  Joseph's,  the  college  of  the  Jesuits 


Courage  in  Life  29 

which  gave  shelter  to  Louis  Philippe  when  he  was  a 
refugee  in  America,  and  where  later  Jefferson  Davis 
was  a  hard-working  student. 

My  uncle  Burr,  the  eldest  son,  was  the  flower  of  my 
grandfather's  flock,  tall,  with  a  splendid  figure,  bright 
blue  eyes,  light  waving  hair,  a  dazzling  smile,  a  speak- 
ing voice  of  golden  sweetness,  a  dashing  rider,  and  like 
his  father  a  man  of  extraordinary  courage,  he  sounds 
a  perfect  hero  of  romance.  As  a  child  I  was  ever 
eager  for  stories  about  him.  When  he  graduated  from 
college,  young,  gallant,  intrepid,  inheriting  from  his 
father  the  pioneer  spirit,  Texas,  with  a  handful  of 
brave  men,  was  fighting  for  her  liberty  against  the 
Mexicans,  and  Burr  Duval  raised  in  Kentucky  a  com- 
pany of  young  men  like  himself,  college  bred  and  the  sons 
of  gentlemen.  Among  them  was  the  lover  of  my  great- 
aunt  Polly  Hynes, — then  a  young  lady  who  made  her 
home  with  my  grandfather — and  my  uncle  John  Duval, 
a  boy  of  eighteen.  This  gallant  company  was  called 
the  "Kentucky  Mustangs,"  and  Burr  Duval  was  their 
captain.  They  offered  themselves  for  service  to  Texas, 
and  Colonel  Fannin  asked  them  to  join  his  army. 

They  had  not  been  long  in  the  State  when  in  a  battle 
between  Fannin's  army  and  the  Mexicans  they  surren- 
dered to  General  Urrea,  who  agreed  to  treat  them  as 
prisoners  of  war,  but  at  Goliad,  on  Palm  Sunday,  1836, 
they  with  other  companies,  about  four  hundred  and 
forty- three  men  in  the  very  flower  of  their  youth,  were 
marched  out  and  traitorously  drawn  up  in  line  and 
shot.  A  few  escaped,  my  uncle  John,  being  at  the  end 
of  the  line  and  fleet  of  foot,  among  them. 

When  the  scourge  of  yellow  fever  fifteen  years  later 
visited  Florida,  John  had  returned  from  Texas,  brown, 
thin,  and  still  saddened  from  the  loss  of  his  gallant 


30  My  Beloved  South 

young  soldier  brother,  and  another  and  slighter  grief 
which  ever  pursued  him,  the  necessity  of  choking  to 
death  a  little  dog  that  he  had  taken  to  Texas  from 
Kentucky.  With  Mexicans  in  full  pursuit,  the  dog  was 
about  to  bark,  and  the  only  way  to  save  his  own  life 
was  to  strangle  his  one  faithful  friend.  It  was  a 
miserable  little  tragedy,  and  when  quite  an  old  man  his 
face  would  still  grow  melancholy  when  he  spoke  of  it. 

After  the  death  of  her  first-born  beautiful  son  even 
my  grandfather,  they  said,  could  rarely  make  my 
grandmother  smile,  and  she  was  one  of  the  first  to  die 
of  yellow  fever,  for  she  made  no  effort  to  live.  Aunt 
Polly,  who  was  a  woman  of  strong  character  and  affec- 
tions, had  closed  the  room  where  she  bade  her  lover 
good-bye  forever  and  she  allowed  no  one  to  enter  it 
but  herself.  Tl.e  silver  candlesticks  had  grown  tar- 
nished, the  orange  blossoms  were  brittle  in  the  vase, 
the  dust,  like  a  grey  pall,  covered  every  object.  But 
she  spent  hours  alone  there  every  day. 

The  loss  of  my  grandmother  was  a  terrible  blow  to  my 
grandfather,  and  to  the  end  of  his  life  he  remained 
inconsolable.  They  had  been  like  two  happy  birds  in 
the  springtime.  He  teased  her,  and  she  would  laugh 
and  pull  his  ears  and  play  with  him  as  if  they  were  still 
boy  and  girl.  After  her  death  he  was  restless  and 
miserable,  having  lost  interest  in  all  things.  With 
aunt  Polly  and  her  grief,  it  was  a  depressed  and  changed 
household.  My  uncle  John,  in  spite  of  the  terrible 
tragedy  he  had  lived  through,  wanted  to  go  back  again 
to  Texas.  He  had  lost  his  heart  to  that  vast  country, 
so  full  of  excitement  and  of  seething  vivid  life,  and  my 
grandfather,  to  seek  change  from  his  poignant  grief, 
consented  to  take  his  remaining  family  and  go  with 
him.  They  settled  first  in  Galveston  where  my  aunt, 


Courage  in  Death  31 

Elizabeth  Beall,  who  was  a  very  beautiful  young  widow, 
was  at  the  head  of  the  house.  His  children  gathered 
around  him,  he  began  to  get  back  his  cheerfulness 
again,  to  take  an  interest  in  politics  and  the  rapid 
development  of  the  great  "Lone  Star  State."  My 
father,  who  had  held  the  office  of  Supreme  Judge  of  the 
State  of  Arkansas,  resigned  and  came  to  Texas,  where 
he  married  my  mother  and  went  with  her  to  live  at 
Austin. 

Fate  surely  cheated  me  out  of  a  joy  in  not  knowing  my 
grandfather.  I  have  always  felt  that  we  were  conge- 
nial spirits.  He  was  the  soul  of  hospitality,  affection- 
ate, generous,  brave,  witty,  and  light-hearted,  even  in 
the  face  of  death.  His  love  of  tradition  led  him  to  wear 
a  queue.  In  his  youth  it  was  tied  with  a  black  ribbon, 
but  later  in  life,  when  considered  too  aristocratic  and 
dandified,  it  was  plaited  and  tucked  up  out  of  sight 
among,  his  curls  with  a  hair-pin.  Doctor  Blake  after 
his  death  cut  off  the  queue  and  sent  it  to  my  aunt,  his 
eldest  daughter,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Beall.  He  was  not 
an  old  man  when  he  died  in  Washington  from  an  attack 
of  gout  and  pneumonia.  He  loved  life,  and  he  had  not 
an  enemy  in  the  world.  He  was  vitally  interested  in 
Texas,  that  splendid  new  country  of  his  later  years. 
He  had  many  friends,  and  his  children  adored  him,  not 
with  the  theoretical  love  of  children  for  their  parents, 
which  can  brook  absence,  but  with  the  real  companion- 
able love,  desiring  nothing  so  much  as  constant,  affec- 
tionate intercourse  and  intimate  interchange  of  thought. 
Aunt  Lizzie  told  me  that  his  daughters,  my  mother, 
my  aunt  Mary,  my  aunt  Florida  and  herself  were 
counting  the  days  of  his  return  from  Washington,  when 
they  received  a  letter  from  old  Doctor  Blake  announcing 
his  death. 


32  My  Beloved  South 

The  Governor's  gout  was  very  bad,  [he  wrote]  and 
weakened  him  a  good  deal,  but  I  had  hopes  of  pulling  him 
through  until  the  2Oth,  when  he  seemed  to  grow  worse. 
All  the  time  he  had  been  astonishingly  cheerful,  and  full  of 
amusing  stories.  His  friends  (he  had  too  much  company 
I  thought)  came  in  shoals  from  the  capitol  and  elsewhere 
to  keep  him  company,  and  his  spirits  never  flagged.  I 
stayed  late  the  night  of  the  2oth.  When  I  came  in  he  was 
reading  his  Bible — which  I  send  you — and  laying  it  aside, 
he  said,  "Blake,  there  's  some  mighty  good  reading  in  that 
book.  It  has  helped  me  over  devilishly  rough  roads,  and 
while  maybe  I  haven't  exactly  lived  'a  sober,  righteous 
and  godly  life, '  I  can  honestly  say  I  've  never  questioned. 
I  've  always  been  certain  of  Him.  How  can  anybody 
doubt  who  reads  intelligently  His  Sermon  on  the  Mount?" 
I  begged  him  to  sleep  and  try  and  conserve  his  strength. 
Finally  he  dozed  off,  saying,  "Yes,  that  wonderful  Naza- 
rene  planted  seed  in  my  heart ;  if  it  has  n't  made  a  good 
harvest,  it  is  n't  His  fault.  But,  Blake,  I  really  prefer  not 
to  die.  This  is  a  pretty  good  world  when  all  's  said  and 
done,  don't  you  think  so?"  I  stayed  quite  two  hours  while 
he  slept,  and  I  came  again  very  early  in  the  morning.  I 
could  see  that  the  Governor  was  suffering,  for  he  looked 
terribly  ill.  I  said,  "How  are  you?"  as  cheerfully  as  I 
could.  "Blake,"  he  said,  with  his  ever-ready  joke,  "I  am 
about  to  pass  in  my  checks."  "I  hope  not,  Governor,"  I 
answered.  "Yes,  I  am,"  he  said  smiling  a  weak  smile, 
"and  it 's  just  as  well,  for  there  are  three  old  widows  in 
this  hotel,  all  of  them  desperately  in  love  with  me.  If  I 
got  well  I  'd  have  to  marry  one  of  them,  and  if  I  did  the 
other  too  would  die  of  broken  hearts,  so  it 's  just  as  well 
I  'm  going."  And  with  this  he  turned  his  head,  still  smiling, 
and  a  moment  later  he  was  dead.  And  the  world  holds 
one  less  natural,  generous,  unaffected,  gallant  and  witty 
gentleman.  The  Governor's  death  is  no  less  a  grief  to  me 
than  it  is  to  you.  Pray  permit  me  to  convey  to  you  my 
sincere  sympathy.  .  .  . 


Courage  in  Death  33 

A  little  painted  parchment  fan,  brought  by  one  of 
the  Duval  brothers  from  Rouen,  with  the  family  tree, 
a  silver  christening  dish,  and  a  few  other  heirlooms,  is 
always  in  some  way  to  me  associated  with  my  grand- 
father's death.  It  was  small,  with  ivory  sticks,  inlaid 
with  a  pattern  of  gold.  On  it  a  gentleman  in  satin 
small-clothes  and  a  powdered  wig  danced  the  minuet 
with  a  lady  in  pointed  bodice,  a  flowered  brocaded 
petticoat,  red  high-heeled  slippers,  and  her  hair  dressed  a 
la  Marie  Antoinette.  A  little  trail  of  roses  finished  the 
fan  at  top  and  bottom,  and  on  the  other  side  a  pictur- 
esque shepherd  and  two  beribboned  lambs  disported 
themselves  on  green,  downy  hillocks.  The  fan  was 
said  to  have  been  used,  on  her  way  to  the  guillotine, 
by  an  ancestress  of  my  grandfather,  a  certain  Lucienne 
Duval.  She,  a  devoted  loyalist,  was  condemned  as  an 
extra  indignity  to  ride  publicly  with  her  lover  on  the 
tumbril  to  their  place  of  execution.  All  Paris,  even 
the  scum  of  the  French  Revolution,  knew  of  the  affair, 
for  the  lady  had  none  of  the  hypocrite  in  her,  so  little 
that  she  gave  no  excuse  for  her  conduct,  and  indeed 
always  spoke  of  her  husband  as  a  great  gentleman 
without  fault. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "he  is  too  perfect;  that,  maybe, 
is  why  I  love  de  Tocqueville.  God  knows  he  has 
enough  faults  for  two,  but  he  is,  and  ever  has  been, 
the  one  man  on  earth  for  me." 

The  day  of  the  execution  these  two  who  had  sinned 
much,  but  loved  much,  went  bravely  to  their  death, 
he  taking  snuff  from  his  enamelled  box,  and  talking  as 
gaily  as  if  going  to  a  May  Day  dance  at  Petit  Trianon, 
she  standing  erect  and  waving  defiance  with  that  gay 
and  airy  trifle,  her  little  painted  fan.  When  the  tum- 
bril stopped  de  Tocqueville  said,  "For  the  first  time 


34  My  Beloved  South 

in  my  life  I  shall  reverse  etiquette.  Madame,  I  will 
precede  you." 

"No,"  she  said  with  a  tender  smile,  "Philippe,  you 
have  often  kept  me  waiting;  I  shall  go  first  and  be 
waiting  for  you  still."  And  then  before  all  the  jeering 
multitude  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  on  the 
eyes  and  on  the  mouth,  saying,  "  I  've  always  loved  you, 
always."  And  she,  looking  into  his  eyes,  asked,  for 
she  had  been  jealous,  "And  loved  me  faithfully?"  He 
whispered  back  quite  humbly,  "Before  God,  dear 
woman,  as  faithfully  as  you  have  loved  me!" 

Then,  deaf  to  the  insults  of  the  crowd  about  her, 
who  called  out,  "Look  at  the  painted  cocotte,  brazen 
to  the  last!"  she  walked  erect  to  the  guillotine,  still 
holding  the  little  fan  and  whispering  "  Toujours  fidele, 
toujours"  In  a  moment  the  basket  received  her  head. 
When  de  Tocqueville  stepped  from  the  tumbril,  a  man 
suddenly  old,  he  had  to  be  supported  to  his  execution, 
for  he  could  not  walk.  The  mob  laughed  with  delight 
and  roared  with  triumph,  "  Voyez,  voyez,  Idche,  Idche!" 
They  did  not  see  that  he  had  already  died  with  his 
brave  lady,  and  that  for  once  they  would  execute  a 
corpse. 

The  mistress  of  a  lackey  in  the  Duval  household 
was  said  to  have  picked  up  the  fan  and  returned  it  to 
the  family. 

May  all  the  descendants  of  this  poor  lady  meet  death 
as  bravely  as  she.  Certainly  my  grandfather  did,  and 
that  is  why  Lucienne's  fan  makes  me  think  of  him. 
Death  finds  so  many  who  fear  his  grim  and  "affrighting 
presence  that  he  must  love  those  and  say  a  word  in 
their  favour,  who  in  the  very  last  moment  turn  to  him 
with  a  brave  face,  and  meet  him  with  a  gay  and  unex- 
pected smile. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  CONQUERING  PIONEER 

Courage  comes  straight  from  God, 

With  it  He  has  created  saints,  martyrs, 

Heroes,  soldiers, 

Lent  them  to  the  world, 

And  taken  them  to  Himself  again. 

THE  best  blood  of  America  is  in  Texas,  the  hardy 
blood  of  the  conquering  pioneer.  Even  to-day,  by 
instinct,  inheritance,  and  tradition,  the  men  of  Texas 
are  still  pioneers,  for  they  must  be  ever  on  the  alert 
to  fight  nature  as  she  tries  their  prowess  in  droughts, 
floods,  hurricanes  and  tornadoes,  but  the  golden  possi- 
bilities in  that  vast  land — oil  and  coal  to-day,  topaz 
and  turquoise  to-morrow,  gold  and  silver  in  the  future 
—urge  them  on  to  hope  and  fresh  endeavour. 

The  men  who  first  established  the  Republic  had  force 
enough  to  wrest  the  land  from  the  Indian,  and  after- 
wards from  the  Mexican.  They  were  strong,  they 
fought  to  conquer  or  to  die.  And  not  only  were  there 
pioneer  men,  but  splendid  pioneer  women  as  well. 
How  wise  is  Nature  in  aptly  supplying  her  needs! 
After  the  Civil  War  all  the  babies  born. in  the  South 
were  boys.  It  was  impossible  for  mothers  who  longed 
for  them,  to  produce  girls,  and  when  women  were 
needed  with  intrepid  souls,  great  powers  of  endurance, 
and  vigorous  health  to  share  a  life  of  difficulty  and 

35 


36  My  Beloved  South 

danger  with  daring  men,  Nature  produced  them. 
Medea,  when  asked,  "Country,  husband,  children  are 
all  gone,  what  remains?"  answered,  "Medea  remains." 
There  were  many  Medeas  in  Texas.  When  husband 
and  children  were  killed  by  the  Indians,  and  later  by 
the  Mexicans,  houses  destroyed  by  fire,  cattle  and  horses 
confiscated,  still  these  hardy  women  lived  on  to  a  brave 
old  age. 

Mrs.  Long,  whose  husband  of  her  youth  was  assas- 
sinated by  the  Mexicans,  spent  a  long  life  in  trying  to 
avenge  his  death.  It  needs  an  iron  constitution  and 
rugged  health,  to  survive  the  memory  of  bloody  trage- 
dies, and  life  in  those  days  was  melodramatic  in  its 
intensity.  If  the  occurrences  of  a  day  or  a  week  of 
that  time  were  now  put  on  the  stage,  it  would  give  us, 
sitting  in  our  seats  in  a  theatre,  fierce  and  blood- 
curdling thrills. 

The  crest  of  that  wave  of  supreme  daring — and  his- 
tory, ancient  or  modern,  contains  no  more  sublime  dis- 
play of  courage — was  the  defence  of  the  Alamo.  Not 
one  man  survived.  They  died  like  their  leaders, 
Travis,  Crockett,  Bowie  and  Bonham,  fighting  until 
death  loosened  the  grip  of  the  smoking  weapons  from 
their  brave  hands.  There  is  something  glorious  and 
complete  in  a  bloody  struggle  where  every  man  dies. 
On  the  old  monument  of  the  Alamo  was  the  inscription : 
"Thermopyla3  had  her  messenger  of  defeat,  but  the 
Alamo  had  none."  None  was  needed.  It  was  better 
for  that  superhumanly  gallant  band  to  die  together. 
They  have  made  an  imperishable  page  of  glory  in 
history,  and  left  a  proud  heritage  of  unconquerable 
courage  for  the  state  to  hand  down  to  her  sons. 

But  the  battle  of  San  Jacinto,  when  the  Texans, 
concealed  behind  a  gradually  sloping  hill,  descended 


The  Conquering  Pioneer  37 

unawares  upon  the  Mexicans  with  the  terrible  cry  from 
every  man:  "Remember  Goliad!  Remember  the 
Aiamo !  Goliad !  The  Alamo ! "  avenged  many  deaths. 
And  in  such  furious,  revengeful  haste  were  the  soldiers 
that,  coming  to  close  quarters  with  the  Mexicans  they 
clubbed  their  muskets,  and  fought  hand  to  hand  with 
bayonets  and  knife.  "Goliad!  Goliad!"  which  in 
hoarse,  fierce  cries  echoed  over  the  battlefield,  meant 
death  to  the  Mexican  army,  for,  cruel  memories  crowd- 
ing upon  them,  the  men  fought  like  savages.  The 
artillerymen  ordered:  "Guns  to  the  front!  Guns  to 
the  front!  God!  This  for  the  Alamo!"  and  a  steady 
stream  of  fire  poured  forth  on  the  Mexicans.  The  men 
at  the  guns  were  blackened  with  powder;  the  cannon 
smoked  and  sent  out  long  tongues  of  flame. 

"Fire,  fire,"  cried  one,  "in  God's  name,  fire!" 

"In  the  name  of  Travis,  Bowie,  and  Crockett,  fire, 
men,  fire!" 

The  guns  roared  like  wakeful  hyenas,  the  band  of 
drum  and  fife  stridently  played,  "Will  you  come  to 
the  bower?"  The  Mexicans  were  running,  rushing, 
fleeing,  agonised  and  appalled  from  "The  Bower." 

The  battle  lasted  only  half  an  hour,  but  six  hundred 
and  thirty  Mexicans  were  dead  on  the  fertile  plain, 
more  than  two  hundred  were  wounded,  and  more  than 
seven  hundred  were  prisoners.  Arms,  munition,  mules, 
horses,  money  in  gold  and  silver,  were  taken  as  loot 
from  the  Mexicans,  and  of  the  brave  little  army  of 
seven  hundred  and  forty-three  Texans  there  were  only 
six  killed  and  twenty-five  wounded.  Goliad  and  the 
Alamo  were  avenged. 

Santa  Anna  when  captured  was  generously  treated 
as  a  prisoner  of  war.  If  women,  the  mothers  and 
wives  of  the  men  slain  at  the  massacre  of  Goliad  and 


38  My  Yeloved  South 

shot  at  the  Alamo,  had  taken  him  prisoner  he  would 
have  met  instant  death,  which  he  deserved,  but  he 
lived  to  again  betray  in  1843  the  Texan  troops  at  Nicr, 
when  Fisher's  men,  surrendering  under  a  written  pro- 
mise to  be  accorded  treatment  as  prisoners  of  war,  were 
instantly  tied  together  in  pairs,  and  driven  like  cattle 
towards  the  city  of  Mexico. 

In  the  early  dawn  of  the  following  day,  led  by  a 
brave  Scotchman,  Captain  Ewan  Cameron,  many  of 
them  escaped.  The  remaining  number  who  could  not 
get  away  were  commanded  by  Santa  Anna  to  be  drawn 
up  in  a  line  and  shot,  but  the  order  was  modified  to  the 
drawing  of  black  beans.  The  man,  who,  blindfolded, 
drew  the  fatal  colour  was  shot.  Seventeen  men  in 
this  way  were  executed,  and  those  who  drew  white 
beans  had  better  have  died  than  lived,  so  cruelly  did 
they  suffer.  But  every  day  brought  nearer  to 
the  undaunted  pioneers  of  Texas  the  hope  of  freedom 
and  independence.  Men  may  have  been  many 
things  in  that  struggling  republic,  filibusters,  outlaws, 
adventurers,  gamblers,  pirates,  but  I  never  heard  of  a 
coward. 

We  had  the  honour  of  sharing  with  Louisiana  the 
picturesque  gentleman  pirate  Lafitte,  who  was  said  by 
his  enemies  to  make  love  or  to  scuttle  a  ship  with 
equal  success,  and  by  his  friends  to  be  a  seigneur  with 
letters  of  marque  from  the  French  government.  He 
was  certainly,  to  put  it  politely,  a  violator  of  the 
revenue,  and  Governor  Claybourne  had  put  a  price 
upon  his  head,  when,  at  an  opportune  moment  for  him, 
General  Jackson  and  his  army  arrived  in  New  Orleans. 
With  the  ready  assurance  of  the  bold  adventurer, 
Lafitte  offered  his  services  and  that  of  an  armed  com- 
pany for  the  defence  of  the  state,  and  though  General 


The  Conquering  Pioneer  39 

Jackson  had  denounced  "robbers,  pirates,  and  hellish 
bandits,"  he  entered  the  army,  was  commended  for 
bravery,  gained  a  full  and  free  pardon  by  the  govern- 
ment, and  left  Louisiana  rehabilitated,  only  to  start 
privateering  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  off  the  coast  of 
Galveston.  In  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time  he 
had  gathered  more  than  a  thousand  lawless  adventur- 
ers about  him.  Finally  a  Government  vessel  was 
robbed  of  some  thousands  in  gold.  After  that  he 
disappeared  and  was  supposed  to  have  sailed  for  South 
America. 

La  Salle,  that  brave  and  intrepid  discoverer,  having 
claimed  and  named  Louisiana  for  Louis  XIV,  sailed  for 
Texas,  landed  at  Matagorda  Bay,  explored  the  Lavaca 
River,  and  built  Fort  St.  Louis.  He  called  it  "The  St. 
Louis  of  Sorrow,"  and  so  it  proved  for  him.  It  is  a 
pity  that  its  historic  name  has  been  changed  to  Dimmit's 
Point.  A  leader  of  men  can  never  escape  the  destroy- 
ing jealousy  of  those  whom  he  dominates.  They 
admire  him.  They  fear  him.  They  envy  him  to  the 
point  of  hatred.  La  Salle  escaped  the  dangers  of 
the  explorer  by  land  and  sea  only  to  die  by  the  hand 
of  an  assassin,  one  of  his  own  men,  on  the  Neches 
River. 

There  was  courage  and  daring  and  carelessness  of 
life  in  Texas;  not  only  in  those  early  days,  but  even  as  a 
child  I  myself  remember  the  old  disregard  of  danger 
which  prevailed  in  Texas.  There  is  a  great  deal  in 
atmosphere.  When  a  man  lives  in  a  country  where 
cowardice  is  not  tolerated,  although  he  may  quake 
inwardly  he  would  never  dare  to  show  the  white  feather. 
On  a  Saturday  night  if  a  frontiersman  had  drunk  enough 
liquid  "hell-fire,"  he  would  ride  into  the  town  yelling 
like  a  Comanche  Indian,  the  reins  of  his  horse  thrown 


40  My  Beloved  South 

over  his  arm  or  held  in  his  teeth,  and  both  hands  occu- 
pied in  alternately  firing  off  pistols,  one  perhaps  pointed 
upward  to  the  heavens,  the  other  downward  to  the 
earth,  or  by  misadventure  hitting  a  human  being.  My 
youngest  brother,  Ridge,  standing  on  the  side-walk, 
enjoying  one  of  these  all  too  realistic  spectacular  per- 
formances, was  shot  through  the  foot.  He  was  about 
fifteen  years  old  and  we  were  the  greatest  friends,  then 
and  always.  After  a  few  days  I  was  allowed  as  a  great 
privilege  to  see  the  little  greyish  hole  in  his  instep.  I 
don't  think  he  minded  it  much;  with  a  bundle  of  news- 
papers and  a  pile  of  books  he  was  always  oblivious  to 
the  world. 

When  I  grew  up  and  married,  during  my  visits  to 
Texas  my  brother  Ridge  always  spent  a  part  of  every 
day  with  me  and  he  had  such  a  restful,  comfortable, 
sensible,  original  way  of  visiting.  He  wanted  to  see  me, 
but  having  nothing  in  particular  to  say,  he  said  nothing. 
Arriving  with  a  dozen  newspapers  under  one  arm  and 
several  books  under  the  other,  he  gave  me  a  brief  but 
affectionate  greeting,  and,  sitting  down,  he  read  steadily 
for  two  hours,  got  up,  patted  me  on  the  head  or  shoulder, 
and  said,  "Good-bye,  Betts  Swizzlegigs,  see  you  to- 
morrow." And  off  he  would  go;  but  he  always  saw 
me  on  the  morrow.  For,  in  the  whole  of  his  life,  he 
never  broke  the  slightest  promise,  or  told  a  little  or  a 
big  lie. 

When  he  talked,  which  he  did  amazingly  well,  it  was 
to  say  something  worth  while,  for  he  had  a  perfectly 
astounding  memory.  It  was  like  a  moving  picture 
show,  and  seemed  to  have  literally  photographed  every 
event,  every  book,  and  every  poem  that  he  had  ever 
read.  He  was  very  fond  of  some  little  verses  by  Rollin 
Ridge,  a  talented  Cherokee  Indian: 


The  Conquering  Pioneer  41 

I  love  thee  as  the  soaring  bird 

The  bright  blue  morning  when  he  sings, 

With  circling,  circling  melody, 

And  Heaven's  sweet  sunlight  on  his  wings. 

I  love  thee  as  the  billows  love 

In  tropic  lands  the  pearly  shore; 

They  come  and  go — they  come  and  go, 

With  answering  kisses  evermore. 

I  love  thee  as  the  mariner 
Far  driven  o'er  the  stormy  sea 
The  bright  and  shining  silver  star 
Which  tells  him  where  his  home  may  be. 
I  love  thee  thus  and  ever  shall; 
Thine  eyes  their  bright  and  glorious  light 
Shine  in  my  soul  for  evermore 
Illumining  its  darkest  night. 

and  he  always  repeated  again  the  lines, 

"With  circling,  circling  melody 
And  Heaven's  sweet  sunlight  on  his  wings." 

and  I  hope  in  that  other  and  more  beautiful  country 
where  he  has  gone,  "Heaven's  sweet  sunlight"  is 
shining  upon  him. 

As  a  little  girl,  I  had  a  great  desire  to  be  brave,  but, 
like  the  burglar  described  to  me  by  F.  C.  Freest,  the 
able  superintendent  of  police  in  London,  who  had 
three  terrors — an  old-fashioned  iron  bar  fastened  across 
a  door,  a  little  shrill  barking  dog,  and  an  old  maid  who 
always  sleeps  with  one  eye  open, — there  were  three 
things,  which  struck  terror  to  my  soul.  These  were 
the  drunken  yells  of  the  galloping  outlaws,  the  old 
Voodoo  negro  witch  living  near  us,  who  was  said  to  make 
people  die  by  putting  a  spell  on  them ;  and  the  bellowing 


42  My  Beloved  South 

of  a  bull,  which  for  a  long  time  I  believed  to  be  the 
devil  roaring  aloud  for  bad  children  whom  he  was  seek- 
ing to  devour.  This  fable  had  been  told  me  by  a  little 
negro  girl  on  the  place,  and  had  sunk  deep  into  my  well 
of  credulity,  where  even  yet  the  waters  have  not  been 
dried  to  dust  by  the  world's  disillusionment. 

Maum  Phyllis,  the  Voodoo  witch,  had  been  brought 
to  Texas  from  South  Carolina  by  my  uncle  Marcellus 
Duval,  and  my  father  always  said  she  was  the  last 
slave  who  had  been  born  in  Africa.  She  was  so  black 
that  even  her  lips  were  a  blue-black  colour;  her  eyes 
were  large  and  rolling;  che  never  smiled  and  seldom 
spoke.  In  her  ears  she  wore  big  hoops  of  gold,  and  a 
snow-white  head  handkerchief  instead  of  the  gay  plaid 
turban  always  worn  by  other  negro  women.  The 
contrast  of  her  stern  black  face  and  the  white  above  it 
was  startling.  There  was  no  scandal,  no  secret,  no 
small  incident  in  any  house  in  town  which  was  unknown 
to  her,  and  even  white  women  were  not  above  buying 
her  love  philtres.  One  of  her  peculiar  talismans, 
composed  cf  a  bat's  wing,  a  rabbit'a  foot,  some  hemp 
from  the  rope  which  had  hanged  a  murderer,  and  drops 
of  milk  from  the  breasts  of  a  mother  and  daughter,  each 
nursing  a  baby  of  the  same  age,  was  supposed  to  bring 
unwilling  lovers  to  the  most  forbidding  of  woman-kind. 
In  the  South,  where  women  married  very  young, 
it  was  not  an  unusual  thing  for  the  mother's  youngest 
child  to  be  of  the  same  age  as  her  daughter's  firstborn. 

Mammy,  although  a  very  religious  and  ardent  Metho- 
dist, was  a  firm  believer  in  Voodooism,  charms,  amulets, 
the  evil  eye,  "  sperrits  "  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  I  cannot 
even  now  disabuse  my  mind  of  superstition  and  I  know, 
"de  cunjhe  book  "contains  many  warnings  and  shud- 
dering peeps  into  the  future. 


The  Conquering  Pioneer  43 

"De  cunjhe  book  say  dat  he  prowl  by  night, 
En'  de  cunjhe-book  ought  to  know; 
Deh  's  a  chance  dat  he  's  neah  when  de  dew  gleam  bright 
En  de  ol'  bak  lawg  buhn  low — 

Deh  's  a  chance  det  he  's  neah  when  de  stars  wink  weak, 
En'  de  tallow  cup  buhn  blue; 
En'  doan  yo'  dahe  to  speak 
When  de  ol'  flo'  creak — 
It 's  de 

Voodoo  Bogey-Boo! 

"He  's  de  awfullist  thing,  de  cunjhe  books  say, 
(Wuss  den  de  uddeh  bogy-boos) 
En'  de'  ain't  no  chahm  det  kin  keep  him  away — 
He  jes'  come  aroun'  when  he  choose. 
Deh  's  snake-skin,  en'  bat-wing,  en*  rabbit-foot, 
Well,  its  mighty  li'l  good  dey  '11  do, 
Foh  de  cunjhe-book  tell 
It 's  hahd  to  put  a  spell, 
On  de 

Voodoo  Bogey-Boo! 

"Sum  say  det  he  gallop  on  an  ol'  blac'  cat 
Roun'  de  rim  ob  de  big  full  moon, 
Sum  say  det  he  cum  in  de  shape  of  a  bat 
Fum  his  home  in  de  swamp  lagoon, 
En'  gran'mammy  tell  dat  he  's  always  neah 
When  ebeh  deh  's  a  grabe  dug  new, 
En'  she  say  if  yo'  heah 
A  ringin'  in  yo'  eah 
It 's  de 

Voodoo  Bogey-Boo! 

"  Lemme  tell  yo',  1'il  boy,  you  betteh  keep  still 
De  dawg  's  at  de  do'  peepin'  fru' 
En'  eben  de  cricket  in  de  damp  do'sill 
Am  stoppin'  to  listen  too — 


44  My  Beloved  South 

De  room  am  still  en'  de  fiah  am  daid 
Deh  's  sumfin  a  cummin'  fob  yo' 
Jes'  yo'  jump  right  in  baid 
En'  kibbeh  up  yo'  haid, 
It 's  de 

Voodoo  Bogey-Boo!" 

Voodooism  is  now  a  thing  of  the  past,  but  all  the 
world  knows  that  a  rabbit's  foot  which  has  danced  on 
a  tombstone  in  a  graveyard  will  bring  extraordinary  good 
luck.  I  have  never  been  fortunate  enough  to  possess 
one.  My  mascot  of  these  days  is  a  bracelet  made  from 
the  hairs  of  an  elephant's  tail,  an  ornament  guaranteed 
to  bring  at  least  some  good  fortune.  It  is  lucky  in 
the  first  place  to  get  the  bracelet  at  all,  for  not  every 
elephant  has  hair  on  his  tail,  and  to  have  the  black 
spikes  necessary  to  bend  like  tiny  whalebones  into  a 
circle,  the  elephant  must  have  been  free,  a  dweller  in 
forests,  a  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed,  and  a  leader  in 
the  elephant  world.  He  must  have  lifted  up  his  trunk 
and  deeply  trumpeted  when  he  heard  the  lion's  loud 
roar  in  the  jungle;  he  must  have  been  wise  and  more 
than  a  century  old,  for  thin  weak  hairs  cannot  appease 
an  angry  fate.  My  Helen  gave  me  a  tiger's  whisker; 
it  was  neatly  curled  up  and  enclosed  in  a  little  sapphire 
studded  gold  heart,  and  attached  to  a  bracelet,  but  a 
fair-haired  German  waiter  stole  it  from  me  two  years 
ago  in  New  York.  I  daresay  by  this  time  he  is  pro- 
prietor of  a  prosperous  hotel  and  all  the  luck  intended 
for  me  has  been  transferred  to  him. 

One  little  piece  of  good  fortune  that  I  had  was  being 
born  in  Texas,  that  great,  wide,  cheerful,  courageous 
territory,  with  the  most  picturesque  history  of  all  the 
states  and  a  distinct  individuality  of  its  own,  inheriting 
as  it  has  something  of  aloofness  and  independence  from 


The  Conquering  Pioneer  45 

the  old  Republic.  During  her  long  struggle  with 
Mexico,  England  and  France,  for  their  own  reasons, 
had  both  shown  great  interest  in  the  future  of  Texas, 
but  without  help  she  had  fought  bravely  on,  overcom- 
ing with  bleeding  steps  defeat  and  disaster,  until  at 
length  Mexico  was  obliged  to  offer  her  terms  of  peace. 
This  brought  the  United  States  to  a  realisation  of  her 
position  and  importance.  Goethe  said  "Thought 
expands  and  weakens  the  mind;  action  contracts  and 
strengthens  it " ;  certainly  these  men  of  action  know  how 
to  wait.  Patience  has  won  more  battles  than  bravery, 
for  it  means  unending,  sustained  courage. 

The  most  thrilling  thing  I  ever  heard  Parnell  say  in 
his  even  steady  voice  was,  "  I  can  always  bide  my  time." 
These  pioneer  statesmen  bided  their  time.  Quietly 
resting  between  Mexico  and  the  United  States  they 
calmly  compared  the  advantages  of  a  republic,  or  a 
state,  and  delicately  weighed  in  the  scales  all  that  would 
be  to  their  own  advantage.  Each  of  the  other  states 
had  asked  to  be  admitted  to  the  Union,  but  Texas 
proudly  waited,  and  when  she  received  her  card  of 
invitation  said,  "Yes,  I  am  flattered  at  your  polite 
invitation,  but  I  must  enter  the  Union  on  my  own 
terms."  And  if  she  wishes  it  to-morrow,  she  can  be 
divided  into  four  States  and  send  twelve  men  to  the 
Senate;  but  this  will  never  be,  for  she  is  proud  of  her 
stupendous  size,  of  her  unique  position  and,  above  all, 
of  being  the  "Lone  Star  State." 

When  the  United  States  agreed  in  1846  to  her  inde- 
pendent terms,  at  the  first  faint  streak  of  dawn  cannons 
boomed  to  assemble  together  the  patriots  and  pioneers 
who  had  fought  for  her  liberty  in  the  past  and  would 
guard  it  jealously  in  the  future.  The  sunrise  was 
magnificent,  and  amidst  a  profound  silence  the  honoured 


46  My  Beloved  South 

flag  with  its  single  star  was  lowered  and  furled,  and  a 
flag  with  stars  hoisted  and  unfurled.  The  President 
of  the  late  Republic  said  with  deep  feeling:  "The  final 
act  in  the  great  drama  is  finished,  the  Republic  of 
Texas  is  dead.  The  State  of  Texas  lives."  There 
was  a  wild  shout,  and  Texas  was  enrolled  in  the  Union. 
When  the  Legislature  assembled,  the  state  constitu- 
tion, framed  by  just  and  honest  men,  showed  that 
sagacity  and  wisdom  ruled  her  counsels.  Much  of 
the  Common  Law  in  England  was  used  and  some  of 
the  laws  improved  upon.  All  property  owned  by  the 
husband  or  wife  at  the  time  of  marriage  and  all  acquired 
afterwards  remained  the  separate  property  of  each, 
and  all  property  acquired  during  marriage  was  common 
property.  Offences  against  the  persons  of  slaves  were 
punished  in  the  same  way  as  those  committed  against 
white  people.  The  homestead  was,  and  still  is,  exempt 
from  debt.  Public  free  schools  were  supported  by 
taxation ;  and  a  sum  of  money  was  voted  for  the  main- 
tenance of  the  Texas  rangers,  a  small  army  necessary 
to  the  State  in  the  quick  capture  and  punishment  of 
marauding  outlaws  and  "Hellish  bandits."  My  father 
often  commented  upon  the  wisdom  of  the  constitution 
of  the  State.  He  was  himself  the  author  of  Paschal' s 
Digest  of  the  Laws  of  Texas.  Martin  Lyttleton,  that 
brilliant  lawyer  and  fine  orator,  told  me  it  was  the  first 
law  book  he  had  ever  read,  and  although  he  has  now 
attained  prominence  in  the  Congressional  life  of  Wash- 
ington, he  never  forgets  Texas  and  his  love  for  that 
great  State. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SAM  HOUSTON 

An  opal-hearted  country, 

A  wilful,  lavish  land; 
All  you  who  have  not  loved  her, 

You  will  not  understand 
Though  earth  holds  many  splendours, 

Wherever  I  may  die, 
I  know  to  what  brown  country 

My  homing  thoughts  will  fly. 

DOROTHEA  MACKELLER. 

BEFORE  the  war,  society  in  Austin  must  have  been 
very  varied  and  interesting.  General  Sam  Hous- 
ton was  governor  of  the  State.  My  mother  did  not 
like  him,  holding  him  responsible  for  the  massacre  of 
Goliad  where  my  Uncle  Burr  Duval  had  been  shot; 
but  from  this  history  exonerates  him.  He  came  to 
Texas  in  the  first  instance,  like  many  another  man,  to 
mend  a  broken  heart,  and  for  a  time  eschewed  the 
society  of  the  white  man  and  above  all  the  white  woman. 
Living  entirely  with  the  Indians,  he  learned  their 
language,  adopted  their  costume,  and  to  the  end  of  his 
life  retained  a  certain  bold  picturesqueness  in  his  dress. 
When  Governor  of  the  State,  he  wore  a  soft  silk  shirt, 
a  flowing  red  necktie,  a  leopard-skin  vest,  coat  and 
trousers  of  brown  camel's  hair,  a  wide  sombrero  of  grey 
felt  embroidered  in  silver,  and  a  rich-coloured  Mexican 
serape.  Some  of  these  serapes  woven  by  the  Indians 

47 


48  My  Beloved  South 

are  of  great  value ;  they  are  made  on  a  fine  frame  not 
unlike  the  manner  of  weaving  an  Eastern  rug,  and  are 
splendid  in  colouring  and  as  pliable  and  soft  as  an 
Indian  shawl.  Age  only  improves  them;  with  care 
they  last  for  generations  and  are  with  the  Mexicans 
valued  heirlooms.  Governor  Houston  loved  popular- 
ity and  was  always  sending  my  mother,  through  my 
father,  some  small  carved  object.  Like  Madame  de 
Stael  he  required  constant  occupation  for  his  hands; 
she  played  with  a  twig  or  a  flower,  he  was  always 
whittling,  and  he  was  rarely  seen  without  a  knife  and  a 
piece  of  soft  wood  which  he  transformed  into  stars, 
hearts,  diamonds,  and  Noah's  Ark  people  and  animals. 
Eventually  my  mother  softened  towards  him,  for  he 
and  my  father  were  always  friends.  In  a  quarrel 
which  he  had  with  a  public  man,  my  father  was  trying 
to  mend  matters  when  Governor  Houston  said:  "You 
are  right,  Judge,  I  must  n't  be  too  hard  on  Jones;  he 
has  every  quality  of  the  dog  except  his  fidelity/' 

The  romance  of  his  life  was  not  unlike  that  of  Claude 
Melnotte,  but  without  the  happy  ending  which  romance 
so  easily,  but  life  rarely,  gives.  He  was  a  man  of  great 
ability  and  when  very  young  was  elected  governor  of 
Tennessee.  During  his  term  of  office  he  fell  ardently 
in  love  with  a  beautiful  and  ambitious  girl.  The 
wooing  was  not  without  difficulty  as  he  had  a  rival,  a 
young  man,  undesirable  and  undistinguished,  who 
scarcely  entered  into  his  big  busy  mind.  The  girl  he 
loved  lived  in  an  adjoining  town,  and  the  courtship 
was  mainly  through  letters,  therefore  he  had  not  the 
opportunity  of  properly  studying  her  character.  As 
was  the  fashion  of  the  time  they  were  married  at  night, 
in  a  candle-lighted,  flower-wreathed  church.  There 
was  a  big  wedding,  for  everybody  wanted  to  see  the 


Sam  Houston  49 

handsome  young  couple,  and  to  congratulate  the 
Governor,  but  at  last,  at  the  end  of  the  festivities,  he 
sought  the  beautiful  bride.  All  shimmer  of  satin  and 
glimmer  of  pearl,  she  awaited  him,  in  the  rose-and- 
white  bridal  chamber. 

He  went  quickly  towards  her,  speechless  with  emo- 
tion, and  tenderly  gathered  her  in  his  arms.  "  Don't," 
she  said,  pushing  him  away,  "you  will  crush  my  veil." 
Her  voice  struck  coldly  upon  his  quickened  emotions, 
but  he  was  repelled  only  for  a  second.  He  was  too 
happy  to  take  warning,  and  he  unfastened  her  veil, 
laid  it  reverently  on  the  sofa,  and  softly  lifted  her  face 
to  kiss  her.  She  drew  back  with  a  look  almost  of  dis- 
like, and  said,  "Please,  please,  not  now."  He  thought 
it  was  maidenly  modesty  and  said:  "I  have  n't  thanked 
you  yet  for  marrying  me,  but  I  do.  See,  I  am  humble ; 
I  am  on  my  knees,  my  darling,  to  thank  you,"  and  he 
knelt  and  covered  her  hands  with  kisses. 

Another,  softer  woman,  not  loving  him,  would  have 
done  it  then,  and  laying  her  hand  upon  his  head  would 
have  thanked  God  for  this  adoring  heart,  but  her  own 
was  of  ice.  She  said,  somewhat  sharply:  "Do  get  up 
and  don't  be  foolish ;  I  don't  want  you  to  thank  me  for 
marrying  the  Governor  of  Tennessee."  He  said  very 
gently,  "You  have  married  your  lover,  Madame." 

"I  don't  want  a  lover,"  she  said,  coldly,  "if  I  had 
wished  to  give  myself  up  to  love, — a  thing  I  don't 
believe  in, — I  would  have  married  S.,"  naming  his 
rival. 

"Did  you,"  said  her  husband  fiercely,  "love  him?" 

"No,"  she  said,  "but  I  might  have  loved  him,  if  you 
had  not  been  a  man  of  successful  ambition.  I  have 
married,  as  I  said  before,  the  Governor  of  Tennessee." 

"Perhaps,"  said  he  with  a  dangerous  light  in  his 


50  My  Beloved  South 

eyes,  "you  do  not  love  this  gentleman — this  paltry 
Governor — 

She  said,  "Love  is  not  necessary  in  an  ambitious 
marriage.  I  am  the  Governor's  wife.  I  am  to  sit  at 
the  head  of  his  table,  to  receive  his  friends,  to  share 
his  triumphs " 

"And,"  he  cried  with  a  great  burst  of  passion,  "to 
starve  his  heart  and  leave  it  empty!  To  break  it  in 
the  end,  and  to  make  ambition  his  curse.  Even  now," 
he  added  bitterly,  "my  ambition  is  dead.  You  have 
killed  all  my  hopes,  and  I  suffer  the  torments  of  the 
damned,  for  I  wanted  you  and  I  loved  you, — my  God, 
how  I  loved  you!" 

She  answered  calmly:  "I  thought  men  placed  ambi- 
tion before  a  woman.  I  am  willing  for  you  to  do  that. 
You  are  the  Governor  of  .  .  .  ' 

"By  heaven,  Madame,"  he  said  harshly,  "there  is 
no  such  person." 

And  with  that,  he  strode  to  the  writing-table,  wrote 
his  resignation  to  the  State,  threw  it  at  her  feet,  picked 
up  his  hat,  and  said: 

"I  married  you  for  love,  the  purest,  the  truest,  the 
most  reverently  adoring  that  man  ever  gave  to  woman. 
You  married  me  without  love.  I  scorn  a  woman's 
body  without  her  soul.  We  are  as  far  asunder  as  the 
poles.  We  part  here,  now  and  forever." 

He  closed  the  door  and  went  out  into  the  darkness 
of  the  stormy  night — his  tragic  wedding  night — and 
they  never  met  again. 

He  sought  forgetfulness  among  the  Indians,  and 
was  only  roused  from  lethargy  by  the  desperate  efforts 
of  the  struggling  Republic  of  Texas  towards  liberty. 
When  he  became  General  of  the  army,  his  wife,  at  last 
loving  him  deeply,  should,  according  to  romance,  have 


Sam  Houston  51 

travelled  thousands  of  miles  and  appeared,  travel- 
stained,  softened  and  repentant,  to  sue  for  his  forgive- 
ness; but  in  reality  they  were  divorced.  Each  married 
again,  and  they  never  met  after  the  fatal  night  of  their 
parting. 

Texas  must  have  held  more  than  her  share  of  thrilling 
romance  at  this  period.  Men  made  love  with  impulsive 
ardour,  for  the  rapid  uncertainty  of  life  brings  greedi- 
ness for  all  it  holds.  During  the  war,  one  day's  court- 
ship served  for  marriage.  "Love  to-night  and  death 
to-morrow,"  was  the  soldier's  motto. 

Among  the  first  settlers  of  Texas  a  number  of  repre- 
sentatives of  old  Southern  families  had  established 
themselves  in  Austin.  James  Raymond  had  helped 
to  frame  the  constitution  of  the  State  and  was  a  banker ; 
the  Flournoys  (what  pity  to  anglicise  the  aristocratic 
name  of  Fleur  Noire!),  the  Lubbocks,  the  Wauls 
(Waul's  confederate  Texas  brigade  was  later  to  become 
a  synonym  in  the  army  for  undaunted  courage);— 
the  Hancocks,  the  Duvals,  the  Peases — Elisha  Pease, 
afterwards  governor,  although  born  in  the  North  and 
a  Union  man,  never  lost  the  affection  or  confidence  of 
the  people — these  were  among  the  most  distinguished 
of  the  early  settlers.  Then  there  were  the  Throck- 
mortons,  the  Wests,  the  Burlesons,  the  Steiners,  the 
Haynes,  and  the  Wigfalls.  Louis  Wigfall  had  been 
sent  from  Texas  to  the  United  States  Senate.  With 
uncompromising  Southern  proclivities,  he  became  in 
1861  one  of  the  leaders  of  Secession,  and  was  a  fiery, 
vehement,  passionate  speaker,  earning  for  himself  the 
sobriquet  of  "the  stormy  petrel." 

Mrs.  Chesnut,  in  her  Diary  from  Dixie,  1860-65, 
frequently  mentions  the  Wigfalls.  "I  sent  Mrs. 
Wigfall  a  telegram — 'Where  shrieks  the  wild  seamew?' 


52  My  Beloved  South 

She  answered,  'Seamew  at  the  Spotswood  Hotel  will 
shriek  soon.  I  will  remain  here. '  '  And  of  the  bom- 
bardment of  Fort  Sumter,  she  says,  "Wigfall  was  with 
them  on  Marius'  Island  when  they  saw  the  fire  in  the 
fort.  He  jumped  into  a  little  boat  and,  with  his 
handkerchief,  as  a  white  flag,  rode  over.  ...  As  far 
as  I  can  see,  the  fort  surrendered  to  Wigfall.  It  is  all 
confusion."  And  at  Richmond  in  1861  she  says: 
"Heavens!  He  manoeuvred  until  I  was  weary  for 
their  sakes.  Poor  fellows,  it  was  a  hot  afternoon  in 
August  and  the  thermometer  in  the  nineties.  President 
Davis  uncovered  to  speak.  Wigfall  kept  his  hat  on. 
Is  that  military?"  After  the  war  Louis  Wigfall  lived 
for  a  time  in  England,  but  eventually  returned  to  the 
United  States. 

Matthias  Ward,  another  Senator  from  Texas  in 
1860,  was  very  popular.  He  had  a  great  sense  of 
humour  and  enjoyed  a  story  against  himself.  His 
face  was  extremely  youthful,  with  fresh  bright  eyes  as 
blue  as  that  dear  flower,  the  prairie  blue-bonnet,  and 
cotton-white  hair.  Travelling  from  New  Orleans  to 
St.  Louis  by  a  Mississippi  steamer,  he  had  engaged  the 
state-room  number  one  hundred  and  ten.  The  boat 
was  immensely  crowded,  and  his  room  had  been  taken 
possession  of  by  a  party  of  lawless  men.  Standing 
outside  the  open  door  of  the  ladies'  cabin,  the  steward 
called  to  one  of  the  understewards,  "Here,  can't  you 
get  this  poor  man,  one  hundred  and  ten,  a  berth?" 
A  pretty  lady  put  her  head  out  of  the  state-room.  "  Oh, 
steward,  bring  him  right  in  here,"  she  said;  "the  ladies 
won't  mind  a  harmless  old  man  of  a  hundred  and  ten, 
and,  poor  old  soul,  he  must  have  somewhere  to  sleep." 
"Pull  your  hat  down,"  said  the  steward,  "and  hobble 
to  your  berth;  it  will  be  all  right."  But  the  lovely 


A  Man  of  Two  States  53 

ladies  chattering,  relieving  their  pretty  heads  of  hun- 
dreds of  curls  and  braids,  letting  their  own  hair  flow 
over  their  shoulders,  and  dropping  immense  hoop 
skirts  which  fell  with  a  clang  like  steel  armour  to  the 
floor,  were  temptations  too  strong  to  be  withstood. 
Mr.  Ward  peeped,  and  immediately  an  observant 
young  lady  called  out,  "Steward,  steward,  come  quick 
and  get  your  hundred  and  ten.  He  's  looking  at  us  with 
young  blue  eyes."  And  the  steward  had  to  find  him 
another  state-room,  minus  crinolines. 

There  were  many  men  in  Texas  opposed  to  Secession 
at  the  beginning  of  the  war.  The  State  had  entered 
the  Union  on  her  own  terms;  she  was  prosperous  and 
far  enough  away  from  the  passionate  excitement  in 
Washington  for  astute  statesmen  to  see  inevitable 
defeat.  From  the  beginning  everything  was  against 
the  South.  The  North  had  wealth,  open  ports,  greater 
numbers,  and  even  with  success  the  South  must  have 
suffered  horribly  from  a  war  fought  on  her  own  territory. 
But  when  Texas  finally  accepted  Secession  she  did  it 
with  no  half  measures,  furnishing  to  the  Confederate 
army  eighty-eight  regiments  of  infantry  and  cavalry, 
and  more  than  thirty  batteries  of  artillery.  In  all, 
seventy-five  thousand  Texas  men  fought  for  the 
Southern  cause.  Albert  Sydney  Johnston  ranked  among 
the  ablest  officers  in  the  service.  Ben  McCullough 
commanded  the  Texas  Rangers,  who  did  not  know  fear, 
Sam  Bell  Maxey,  a  cousin  of  my  mother's,  soon  won 
his  two  stars.  General  William  Steele,  who  had  mar- 
ried my  aunt  Laura  Duval's  sister,  an  ardent  sympa- 
thiser with  the  South,  had  resigned  from  a  crack 
cavalry  regiment  in  the  United  States  army  to  take  com- 
mand in  Texas.  And  the  long  roll-call  of  glory  holds 
hundreds  of  Texas  names. 


54  My  Beloved  South 

A  baptism  of  fire  during  the  siege  of  Vicksburg  gave 
Texas  an  adopted  son  whose  name  is  well-known  to 
history.  An  important  redoubt  had  been  captured  by 
the  Federals  and  it  was  necessary  for  the  Confederates 
to  recapture  it.  One  entire  company  from  Alabama 
had  been  shot  down  to  the  very  last  man,  when  Waul's 
Texas  brigade  volunteered  to  capture  the  fort.  Cap- 
tain Bradley  said  he  wanted  no  married  officers  to  take 
part,  the  danger  was  too  great.  Pettus,  a  young  Con- 
federate officer  said:  "Bradley,  you  are  a  married  man 
yourself.  Give  me  your  command."  Bradley  an- 
swered: "No,  where  my  troops  go,  I  will  lead  them." 
Captain  Pettus  said,  "All  right,  come  ahead."  He 
placed  himself  well  in  front,  led  them  by  a  circuitous 
route,  and  before  the  Federals  knew  it,  the  fire  of  the 
Confederates  was  destructively  centred  upon  the  fort, 
which  they  unexpectedly  approached  in  the  rear. 
The  quick  volley  and  attack  caused  a  panic,  the  fort 
was  seized,  and  a  greater  number  of  prisoners  than 
their  own  men  were  captured.  Before  the  enemy  fully 
realised  their  position,  the  Confederates  had  spiked 
their  guns  and  without  the  loss  of  a  single  man  had 
gained  a  complete  victory.  They  marched  back  with 
heads  up  and  banners  flying  to  .the  quick-step  of  Dixie, 
played  with  drum  and  fife.  A  Texas  soldier,  full  of 
enthusiasm,  asked  who  the  tall  man  was  who  led  them. 
Someone  said,  "Pettus  of  Alabama."  Then  the  brigade 
broke  into  a  wild  Texas  yell  and  gave  cheer  after  cheer 
for  "Pettus  of  Texas!"  "Pettus  of  Texas!"  And 
Senator  Pettus  ever  afterwards  claimed  to  be  a  man 
of  two  States,  Texas  and  Alabama,  for  he  had  been 
rebaptised  on  the  field  of  battle  for  an  act  of  un- 
surpassed daring  by  a  legion  of  the  Lone  Star  State. 

After  the  war,  Texas  soon  recovered  herself.     Men 


Texas  after  the  War  55 

who  fight  valiantly  forgive  generously.  Confederate 
soldiers  came  back  with  no  bitterness  or  animosity  in 
their  hearts  towards  the  North,  and  they  worked  at 
whatever  occupation  offered  itself  without  hesitation 
or  shame.  A  gallant  Captain,  with  a  bullet  still  in 
his  arm,  measured  a  yard  of  ribbon  in  a  shop;  or  a 
Major,  his  only  possession  one  mule,  ploughed  a  long 
straight  furrow  and  planted  sugar-cane  or  cotton. 
Good  birth  luckily  cannot  be  measured  or  ploughed 
away.  It  remains,  and  in  a  crisis  it  always  counts. 
It  is  said  that  during  the  war  a  gentleman  by  birth 
recovered  from  wounds  that  were  fatal  to  the  son  of 
the  soil.  It  was  not  one  man  fighting  death;  the 
influence  of  his  gallant  forbears  abided  to  help  him. 

In  the  days  of  my  childhood  courage  was  a  fetish  in 
Texas.  Girls  and  boys  tried  to  bear  a  hurt  without  a 
cry.  They  were  brought  up  to  an  open  air  life,  and  early 
learned  to  ride  and  run  and  swim  and  fish  and  hunt. 
When  I  was  a  baby  my  father  had  a  Mexican  saddle 
made  with  a  pommel  about  the  size  of  a  soup-plate 
and,  sitting  in  front  of  him,  I  rode  in  this  way  all  over 
the  country  until  I  was  big  enough  to  mount  a  pony. 
Then  I  learned  to  ride  on  a  gay  little  animal  called 
"Buttons."  He  was  of  Creole  stock,  an  active,  boyish, 
sturdy  little  fellow  of  the  sweetest  temper  and  the  warm- 
est heart,  as  eager  for  affection  and  petting  as  a  dog,  and 
as  playful  as  a  kitten.  If  I  held  up  a  pocket-handker- 
chief he  stood  rigidly  still  looking  at  it,  showing  the 
white  of  his  eyes  with  roguish  knowingness,  until 
unexpectedly,  with  a  rush,  he  ran  and  seized  it  out  of 
my  hand.  Although  my  father  paid  only  twenty-five 
dollars  for  him  he  had  good  Spanish  and  Norman  blood 
in  his  veins,  and  with  his  bright  bay  colour  and  long 
bJack  mane  and  tail  was  a  very  good-looking  little 


56  My  Beloved  South 

animal.  Sometimes  out  of  sheer  joy  of  life  he  tilted 
me  over  his  head  and  I  would  find  myself  sitting  on  the 
grass  very  surprised,  looking  into  his  mischievous  face. 
After  Buttons,  I  held  in  love  my  pet  pig,  "Pancake." 
He  was  extremely  jealous  of  the  pony  whom  he  held 
in  detestation,  and  he  stood  by  squealing  with  rage 
when  I  mounted  for  my  afternoon  ride.  This  quaint 
pet  I  had  literally  raised  from  the  dead.  We  had  a 
famous  Berkshire  sow  of  enormous  size  and  distin- 
guished pedigree  who  overlaid  her  litter  of  pigs,  leaving 
them  as  flat  as  pancakes.  They  were  thrown  out 
behind  the  stable  waiting  for  a  cart  to  bear  them  away, 
when  I  found  them,  thought  one  of  them  breathed,  and 
carried  him  into  the  kitchen  to  Mammy.  She  dosed 
him  with  paregoric — wrapped  him  in  hot  flannels,  put 
him  by  the  fire  and  gave  him  a  bottle  of  fresh  warm 
milk.  Slowly  he  revived,  and  for  a  long  time  I  tended 
him  every  day  and  Mammy  every  night.  Finally  he 
began  to  fatten,  to  take  notice,  and  to  develop  a  loving 
heart.  He  trotted  at  my  heels  like  a  dog  and  sat  on 
the  balcony  in  the  evening  looking  out  on  the  garden 
while  my  mother  watered  her  flowers.  Dressed  in  a 
black  barege  gown  with  low  neck  and  short  sleeves  and 
a  little  tulle  cape  trimmed  with  pink  satin  ribbons,  she 
would  go  from  bed  to  bed,  carrying  a  big  watering- 
pot,  while  a  crowd  of  little  darkies  bearing  smaller 
watering-pots  trotted  after  her.  Evidently  it  afforded 
Pancake  great  satisfaction  to  see  other  people  at  work, 
while  he  was  grunting  at  leisure.  He  got  his  own  way 
in  everything,  not  by  moral  suasion,  but  by  intimida- 
tion. The  moment  he  saw  a  negro  enter  the  dining- 
room  with  a  dish  he  began  to  squeal,  and  the  loud, 
penetrating  and  shrill  noise  continued  until  in  despair 
my  father  would  say,  "Get  a  plate  and  let  me  give 


A  Man  of  Two  States  57 

Pancake  his  dinner  first."  And  before  anyone  else 
was  served,  a  huge  plate  of  steaming  food  was  taken 
out  to  him  for  the  sake  of  quiet. 

Our  house  in  Austin  was  built  of  stone,  with  very 
thick  walls  to  make  it  cool.  A  piazza  in  front  and  an- 
other at  the  rear  ran  along  the  full  length  of  the  house. 
After  the  foundations  were  begun  it  was  found  that  a 
noble  elm-tree  would  have  to  be  sacrificed  to  make 
room  for  the  balcony,  and  my  father  was  indeed  the 
woodsman  who  spared  the  tree,  for  he  built  both  upper 
and  lower  galleries  round  the  trunk  of  it,  and  left  the 
wide-spreading  branches  to  make  a  thick  shade  in 
summer  over  the  roof.  My  mother  always  regretted 
that  it  had  not  been  cut  down,  as  she  said  it  brought 
insects  into  the  house,  but  I  loved  its  rough  body  and 
my  bird-cages  conveniently  hung  upon  it.  The  first 
mocking-bird  I  tried  to  raise  had  a  pathetic  fate.  Its 
father,  rather  than  leave  his  son  in  captivity,  became 
its  filiuscide.  My  fledgling  was  getting  on  splendidly; 
his  dewy  eyes  were  soft  and  bright,  he  had  a  ferocious 
appetite  and  was  fat  and  happy,  when  one  day  the 
parent  bird  approached  the  cage  with  a  little  red  berry, 
fed  him  with  it,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  dead. 

I  profited  by  my  experience.  The  next  mocking- 
bird I  adopted  was  brought  up  out  of  a  cage;  he  was 
called  "Moonlight,"  and  was  perfectly  tame,  hopping 
about  in  every  room  in  the  house  and  sleeping  at  night 
on  the  back  of  a  chair  on  the  balcony.  When  he  was 
just  budding  into  manhood  and  had  begun  to  try  his 
voice  with  low-toned,  beautiful  warblings,  he  met  a 
tragic  end  through  a  yellow  cat  who  caught  him,  for 
although  he  was  rescued  it  was  only  to  die  very  quickly. 
I  cried  myself  into  a  fever,  and  my  father  would  1:: "  c 
shot  the  cat  if  I  had  not  begged  for  its  life. 


58  My  Beloved  South 

A  great  and  constant  delight  after  my  pets  was  the 
garden,  now  gone  forever,  for  although  the  old  house 
stands  the  ground  has  been  divided  and  sold  away  from 
it: 

I  wot  Id  know  it,  could  I  find  it; 
And  before  I  reached  the  gate, 
I  would  catch  the  smell  of  roses, 
Where  the  fragrant  hedge  encloses 
And  the  fair  white  lilies  wait. 

'  Tall  they  were,  the  hedge  and  lilies, 
When  my  little  feet  ran  there; 
And  I  laughed  and  played  beside  them, 
But  the  weary  long  years  hide  them, 
Though  I  seek  them  everywhere. 

I  would  know  it,  could  I  find  it; 
And  before  I  reached  the  gate, 
I  'd  escape  long  years  and  pain 
And  would  be  a  child  again, 
Where  the  tall  white  lilies  wait. 

It  is  to  me  a  supreme  sadness  that  with  my  passionate 
love  of  every  flower  that  grows,  my  only  garden  is  that 
dark  and  solitary  enclosure,  where  I  have  wept  and 
suffered  and  battled  with  loneliness  and  despair,  my 
Garden  of  Gethsemane. 

My  mother's  garden  was  a  whole  acre  of  blossoms. 
The  splendid  Spanish  bayonet  (Yucca),  with  its  thick 
pure  waxen  flower,  grew  near  the  gate.  The  exotic 
cactus,  with  its  gorgeous  blossoms  of  scarlet,  flourished 
where  the  sun  shone  hottest;  and  there  were  beds  of 
heart's-ease,  forget-me-nots,  single  pinks  and  carnations, 
creeping  ice-plant  and  the  delicate  sensitive  plant, 
shrubs  of  cr£pe  myrtle  and  althea,  with  rows  of  holly- 


My  Mother's  Garden  59 

hocks  and  gravelled  walks  thickly  bordered  with  white 
and  pink  and  purple  gillyflowers.  And  the  rose 
garden  was  scarcely  ever,  even  in  mid-winter,  without 
a  few  persistent  blossoms.  There  were  Marechal  Niel 
and  heavy-headed  tea  roses,  the  soft  mauve-pink 
Caroline  Testout,  deep  red  Jacqueminot  roses,  white 
roses  with  their  delicate  reticent  perfume,  and  the 
little  starry  picayune,  and  banksia;  and  crimson  and 
white  ramblers.  The  old-fashioned  sweet,  opulent, 
cabbage  roses,  yellow  and  pink;  the  moss-rose,  whose 
stem  and  foliage  are  almost  as  fragrant  as  the  flower, 
and  the  hardy  hundred-leaf  rose,  with  its  thorny  stem, 
grew  in  riotous  profusion  everywhere.  A  German 
horticulturist  had  helped  my  mother  to  make  one 
picturesque  rose  bed.  When  the  bushes  reached  a 
certain  height  they  were  bent,  the  ends  cut  and  re- 
planted in  the  earth,  where  they  took  root  and  grew  in 
the  shape  of  a  half -hoop,  and  in  leaf  and  blossom,  with 
the  thick  foliage  and  the  many-hued  roses  covering 
every  inch  of  ground,  this  was  a  wonderful  spot  of 
beauty.  Tall  lilies,  white  and  pink  and  scarlet,  stood 
like  sentinels  on  either  side  of  the  path  leading  to  the 
front  door,  and  in  a  protected  corner  of  the  garden 
heliotrope,  oleander,  gardenia,  lemon  verbena,  spitti 
sporum,  and  sweet  olive  made  the  air  a  perfect  bouquet 
of  fragrance.  My  mother  worked  early  and  late 
among  her  flower  beds,  making  war  on  blight,  insects 
and  ants,  and  giving  the  thirsty  plants  enough  water 
to  drink.  There  was  one  bed  of  four  o'-clocks,  a 
species  of  yellow  azalea  whose  blossoms  remained 
closely  folded  buds  until  four  o'clock,  when  they 
opened  their  lazy  golden  eyes  and  gave  forth  a  deli- 
ciously  fresh  clean  perfume.  As  a  child  I  would 
wait  patiently  for  the  magic  hour,  but  these  flowers 


60  My  Beloved  South 

were  shy,  and  I  never  saw  them  actually  unfold  their 
leaves. 

Beyond  Waller's  Creek,  which  ran  just  at  the  back 
of  the  garden,  was  a  wide,  open  prairie  with  a  fine  grove 
of  post  oaks  in  the  centre,  trees  of  beautiful  shape  with 
broad  green  leaves.  In  the  spring  the  prairie  was  rich 
with  variegated  colour  from  the  many  wild  flowers 
which  burst  into  blossom  almost  over  night.  There 
were  bachelor  buttons,  coxcomb,  wild  pink  and  white 
cyclamen,  scarlet  sage,  sweet  william,  a  large  delicate 
pink  and  white  primrose  (a  different  variety  from  the 
small  English  flower),  and  nigger  heads,  a  very  sweet- 
smelling  flower  with  a  big  round  centre  of  dark  brown  and 
small  yellow  and  red  petals.  A  fragrant  white  lily, 
called  rain  lily  from  its  quick  blossoming  after  a  shower, 
bloomed  there,  and  amidst  all  this  flashing  of  brilliant 
tints  were  soft  undulations  of  purest  azure,  as  if  little 
lakes  reflecting  the  sky  were  in  a  state  of  gentle  up- 
heaval. This  pretty  phenomenon  was  produced  by 
vast  quantities  of  thickly  growing  blue-bonnets  (Lupi- 
nus  subcarnosus]  in  such  vivid  luxuriance  as  to  form 
whole  patches  of  sky-blue  on  the  wide  prairie.  I  loved 
that  little  upright,  exquisite,  intensely  coloured  flower, 
with  its  clear-cut  saucy  profile  and  greyish  green  leaves. 
Perhaps  some  day  I  shall  see  it  again. 

And  there  was  the  creek,  the  fascinating  never-to- 
be-forgotten  creek,  where  the  moment  the  weather 
was  warm  enough  we,  my  cousins  and  I,  waded  up-  and 
down-stream  to  make  discoveries  on  the  fertile  banks. 
We  found  natural  grape-vine  swings,  and  ladders  of 
strong  creepers  almost  to  the  tops  of  some  of  the  trees, 
and  underneath  a  thick  growth  of  wild-rose  bushes  a 
startled  whip-poor-will  would  dart  out,  and  when  we 
peeped  between  the  leaves  there  would  He  her  soft 


The  Enchanted  Creek  61 

brown  nest  on  a  carpet  of  moss.  When  the  sun  shone 
hot,  a  turtle  would  leave  her  snow-white  egg  on  the 
sand,  and  the  rainbow  lizard  would  take  a  siesta  in 
the  afternoon.  Sometimes  we  saw  one  with  no  tail, 
showing  that,  while  he  too-soundly  slept,  a  mischievous 
boy  had  dropped  a  sharp  stone  and  cut  it  off.  And 
there  were  gentle-eyed  horned  frogs,  who  never  ran 
away,  but  would  let  us,  with  wildly  beating  hearts, 
handle  them  and  put  them  down  again.  On  the  banks 
grew  pokeberry  bushes,  dipping  towards  the  stream, 
and  we  gathered  their  rich  purple  berries  and  painted 
each  other's  cheeks  and  lips  a  deep  vermilion-red;  and 
there  were  beautiful  teasel-tufts,  that  indelibly  stained 
our  hands.  We  made  bouquets  from  the  great  beds  of 
horsemint  with  its  tiny  white  blossom,  and  we  shelled 
the  milkweed  pod  and  with  the  white  silky  hair  stuffed 
mattresses  for  our  dolls.  The  beautiful  kingfisher 
made  darts  of  light  at  our  approach  and  the  little, 
harmless,  jade-green  water-snakes,  who  touched  our 
bare  legs,  would  make  us  shriek  aloud  with  frightened 
ecstasy.  We  could  hear  the  Bob- White  calling  in  the 
distance  and  sometimes  find  his  low  nest  built  almost 
in  the  water.  The  slow-moving  tortoise  drew  in  his 
head  when,  chattering,  we  passed.  The  melancholy  coo 
of  the  wood-dove  made  us  momentarily  sad,  for  we 
thought  he  was  calling  for  his  missing  mate  and  would 
be  a  solitary  bird  bachelor  all  the  rest  of  his  melancholy 
life,  since  we  were  always  told  that  when  a  dove  died 
the  other  never  mated  again. 

The  green  katy-did  sang  long  and  lingeringly  along 
the  margin  of  the  creek;  the  crickets  chirped  more 
loudly  there,  and  the  brown  frogs  gave  forth  a  mellower 
boom.  It  was  a  place  of  dear  enchantment,  and  how 
disappointed  we  were  when  a  drought  came  and  dried 


62  My  Beloved  South 

the  dimpling,  clear,  brown  water  and  turned  the  irreg- 
ular little  stream  into  a  dusty  road-bed.  Ah !  the  poor 
little  city  children  who  are  devoid  of  all  these  sweet 
woodland  melodies! 

And  if  my  borrowed  cousins  sometimes  went  home 
and  I  had  no  playfellow,  there  were  all  of  my  dear 
dream  friends  who  in  imagination  dwelt  with  me. 
Little  Red  Riding-Hood,  Beauty  and  the  Beast,  Cin- 
derella, Bluebeard  and  his  wives,  Sister  Ann,  Puss-in- 
Boots,  Jack  the  Giant-killer,  Jack-of-the-Beanstalk, 
the  fairy  Princess  and  Bob  Goodfellow,  Little  Bo-peep 
and  Little  Boy-blue  and  Sleeping  Beauty,  were  all  as 
real  to  me  as  my  father  and  mother  and  aunt  Polly 
Hynes,  who  lived  part  of  the  year  with  us  and  was 
always  ready  to  read  me  these  enchanting  fairy  stories. 
I  loved  her  dearly  and  feared  her  too,  for  she  was  a 
lady  of  unassailable  dignity  and  rigorous  habits. 
Never  on  the  warmest  summer's  day  did  she  take  off  her 
"stays"  and  put  on  a  loose  muslin  wrapper;  no  matter 
how  high  the  temperature,  she  was  always  scrupulously 
dressed,  with  not  a  hair  out  of  place.  A  ruffled  cap 
of  beautiful  lace  with  strings  was  tied  under  her  chin; 
an  embroidered  collar  of  sheer  muslin  was  fastened  at 
the  neck  with  the  miniature  of  a  young  man  in  a  uni- 
form; and  a  deep  purple  or  black  and  white  muslin 
gown  neatly  fitted  her  tall  erect  figure.  She  always 
carried  a  brocaded  silk  bag  which  contained  two  snuff- 
boxes, one  of  dark  enamel,  the  other  of  gold,  with 
Holyrood  castle  engraved  on  the  top.  Two  handker- 
chiefs, a  gaily  coloured  one  for  snuff,  the  other  of  sheer 
fine  linen,  and  a  pair  of  black  woollen  mitts,  in  case  her 
hands  got  cold,  completed  the  contents.  At  precisely 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  a  little  negro,  who  rarely 
left  her  side  except  for  this  office,  entered  the  room  with 


Inexorable  Texas  63 

a  glass  of  sangaree  (ice  and  claret  sugared,  and  powdered 
thickly  on  the  top  with  nutmeg)  and  two  cakes.  She 
delicately  drank  the  claret  and  nibbled  the  cakes,  and 
I  remember  thinking  that  as  soon  as  I  grew  up  I  should 
certainly  take  snuff  and  drink  sangaree. 

When  Aunt  Polly  grew  very  old  the  sexton  of  St. 
David's  who  was  old  too,  called  her  "Aunt  Polly." 
She  drew  herself  up  and  said,  "Only  my  nephews  and 
nieces  call  me  that — Miss  Hynes,  if  you  please,"  and 
Miss  Hynes  she  remained  even  to  our  youngest  and 
most  intimate  friends.  Of  all  her  nieces  she  loved 
best  her  namesake,  Molly  Duval,  the  beauty  of  the 
family.  Molly  was  my  favourite  too.  She  had  hair 
as  yellow  as  ripe  corn,  a  beautifully  smooth  pink  and 
white  skin,  brown  eyes,  and  a  charming  sense  of  humour. 
When  she  reached  girlhood  she  was  a  great  toast  and 
belle,  breaking  many  hearts,  but  finally  she  married 
William  Nelson  of  Virginia.  Even  those  of  us  who 
were  not  so  beautiful  as  Molly  had  a  lovely  time. 
As  Austin  was  a  military  station,  there  were,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  young  men  of  the  town,  any  number  of 
cavalry  and  infantry  officers,  while  other  young  soldiers 
stationed  at  solitary  posts  came  down  occasionally 
from  the  frontier,  and  not  having  seen  a  woman  for 
months  they  were  very  impressionable,  and  generally 
became  engaged  to  some  girl  not  many  days  after  their 
first  meeting.  There  were  balls  and  dances,  moon- 
light picnics,  rides  and  drives,  serenades  and  cham- 
pagne breakfasts,  and  life  was  as  careless  and  gay  as 
youth,  health,  and  high  spirits  could  make  it. 

And  yet  beneath  that  carelessness  the  inexorable 
spirit  of  the  country  was  and  is  always  present.  The 
way  of  transgressors  is  not  unusually  hard  in  that  dear 
land,  but  no  leper  in  a  desert  island  is  more  avoided  than 


64  My  Beloved  South 

a  hypocrite  when  found  out ;  and  the  punishment  meted 
out  to  him  is  remorseless.  I  remember  a  man  who 
came  to  Texas,  took  orders  for  the  ministry,  and 
became  assistant  curate  to  an  Episcopal  clergyman. 
There  was  a  rumour  that  he  was  married,  but  he  was 
uncommunicative  about  his  affairs,  and  nothing  was 
definitely  known  until  he  produced  a  newspaper  which 
contained  a  notice  of  the  death  of  his  first  wife.  He 
fell  in  love  with  a  sweet,  amiable,  and  charming  girl, 
and  a  little  later  married  her.  It  was  such  a  pretty 
wedding,  all  smiles  and  tears,  white  tulle,  fresh  orange 
blossoms,  white  Swiss  muslin,  bridesmaids,  many 
loving  gifts,  and  heartfelt  and  affectionate  wishes  for 
the  modest  bride.  The  bridegroom,  a  plain,  dark, 
swarthy,  unattractive  man,  was  so  filled  with  joy  that 
he  appeared  almost  good-looking.  After  the  marriage 
two  children  were  born,  and  they  were  quite  happy 
until  the  first  wife  appeared  to  say  that  she  had  never 
died,  and  had  never  been  divorced  from  her  husband. 
She  had  last  heard  of  him  in  Arizona,  as  having  married 
a  Mexican  girl;  then  he  disappeared,  and  she  had 
now  traced  him  to  Texas.  A  trial  for  bigamy  was 
begun,  he  was  convicted  and  sentenced  to  serve  one 
or  two  years  in  the  penitentiary.  His  young  wife, 
the  mother  of  his  children,  was  that  most  touching, 
amazing  creature  on  earth,  a  woman  with  perfect  faith 
in  the  man  she  loved.  She  did  not  believe  the  first 
wife's  tale,  nor  the  evidence  (if  she  even  read  it),  nor 
the  jury  nor  the  judge.  She  simply  rested  upon  the 
word  of  her  husband.  This  attitude  aroused  even  the 
pity  of  the  first  wife,  and  she,  upon  being  appealed  to 
by  the  husband's  counsel,  agreed  to  divorce  him. 

The  decree  was  granted  without  delay,  and  before 
he  went  to  serve  his  term  of  imprisonment  he  was 


Inexorable  Texas  65 

allowed,  in  consideration  of  his  second  wife's  family, 
to  leave  the  prison,  and  be  married  in  his  own  house 
at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  by  a  justice  of  the  peace. 

It  was  after  he  had  served  his  term  that  his  true 
punishment  began.  He  was  not  only  ostracised;  he 
even  ceased  to  exist  in  the  community,  and  earned  his 
bread  by  going  to  the  back  door  of  the  houses  where  he 
had  been  an  honoured  guest  and  leaving  blocks  of  ice. 
The  people  resented  with  bitterness  the  betrayal  of 
their  trust.  They  could  not  forget  that  a  hypocrite 
had  married  the  young,  prayed  for  the  sick,  and  buried 
the  dead,  and  they  could  never  forgive  him.  Texas 
might  pardon  a  filibuster,  an  outlaw  or  a  hot-blooded 
impulsive  slayer  of  men  (I  won't  say  murderer),  but  a 
hypocrite  goes  unpardoned. 

My  father  once  questioned  the  old  sexton  who 
wanted  him  to  defend  a  man  who  had  committed  a 
murder.  "But,  Stavely,"  he  said,  "hasn't  O'Brien 
already  shot  six  men?" 

"He  is,  Jedge,"  Stavely  answered,  "but  there  's  one 
thing  to  be  said  for  him,  he  ain't  never  killed  no  man 
that  did  n't  want  killing  mighty  bad." 

The  man  who  has  met  with  "an  accident"  and  killed 
another  man  is  regarded  leniently — but  a  ban  is  laid 
upon  the  hypocrite.  He  is  a  coward,  and  a  coward  is 
worse  than  an  outcast,  for  life  in  that  wide  country  is 
of  less  value  than  honour.  My  father,  who  was  the 
best,  kindest,  and  most  humane  gentleman  I  ever  knew, 
believed  in  the  duello.  He  said  a  man  had  a  perfect 
right  to  protect  his  own  home  and  his  womenkind  at 
the  point  of  a  pistol.  He  argued  that  through  this 
drastic  means  we  were  freed  from  long,  salacious,  divorce 
or  breach  of  promise  cases,  or  suits  for  damaged  affec- 
tions; that  men  when  they  deceived  or  compromised 


66  My  Beloved  South 

women  knew  the  consequences  and  were  more  careful 
of  their  conduct.  He  did  not  live  long  enough  to 
comprehend  the  modern  woman  who,  best  of  all,  is 
taught  and  is  able  to  protect  herself. 

The  men  of  Texas  are  eminently  manly.  They  look 
life  squarely  in  the  face  with  unflinching  candid  eyes, 
and  they  do  not  mind  in  the  least  the  laugh  being 
turned  on  them  for  their  patriotic  devotion  to  their 
State.  They  may  not  be  quite  so  self-centred  as  that 
famous  gentleman  of  history,  Honorius,  who  wept  at 
Ravenna  when  told  that  Rome  was  lost,  thinking  that 
his  pet  chicken  had  flown  away,  and  when  he  found  it 
was  only  the  capital  of  the  world  was  immensely 
relieved;  nor,  like  Louis  XVI,  who  on  a  day  when  there 
was  no  hunt  wrote  in  his  diary,  "Nothing  doing," 
although  at  that  moment  Paris  stormed  the  Bastille; 
but  Texans  ever  bear  first  in  mind  the  needs  and  the 
advancement  of  that  wide  opal-hearted  country.  It  is 
said  that  if  a  member  of  Congress  goes  to  the  Texas 
delegation  with  a  bill  which  affects  the  life  of  the  whole 
nation,  they  listen  politely  and  probably  answer: 
"This  bill  is  all  very  well,  but  what  are  you  going  to 
do  for  the  harbour  at  Galveston?"  Or  they  mention 
some  other  appropriation  for  the  benefit  of  that  vast 
land,  and  certainly  the  very  core  of  the  heart  of  the 
Lone  Star  State  is  rooted  in  its  soil. 

The  modern  Texan  is  a  fine,  independent,  upstand- 
ing human  being,  who  boldly  carves  out  his  future, 
arguing  that  a  man  must  first  achieve  his  own  glory 
before  he  boasts  of  the  glory  of  his  forbears.  Man  is 
a  product  of  the  land  he  lives  in.  The  Texas  men  in 
Congress  are  characterised  by  a  certain  honest  forceful 
directness,  courage  and  independence,  doubtless  an 
inheritance  of  the  intrepid  spirit  of  the  old  Republic. 


Inexorable  Texas  67 

Senator  Culberson,  with  many  busy  years  of  service 
to  the  State  to  his  credit,  is  honoured  for  his  impeccable 
honesty.  Albert  Sydney  Burleson,  a  man  of  fine 
character,  great  courage  and  varied  interests,  valiantly 
carries  forward  the  tradition  of  his  fighting  ancestors 
who  helped  to  make  the  brave  history  of  the  State. 
His  character  is  interestingly  complex,  combining 
great  directness  and  simplicity  with  the  ready  acuteness 
of  the  far-seeing  politician.  And  he  views  with  a 
prophetic  eye,  not  only  the  political  arena  of  America, 
but  of  the  whole  world.  But  the  whole  Texan  delega- 
tion are  good  men  and  true,  fearless,  manly,  and  kind. 
They  are  not  crafty  or  strategic  politicians,  for  the 
Texan  men  and  women  take  life  with  straightforward 
directness,  praise  their  friends,  and  abuse  their  enemies. 
It  may  not  be  the  wisest  course  to  pursue,  but  oh,  it 
can  be  done  with  such  enjoyment  and  sincerity! 

Truth  only  needs  to  be  for  once  spoke  out, 

And  there  's  such  music  in  her,  such  strange  rhythm, 

As  makes  men's  memories  her  joyous  slaves, 

And  clings  around  the  soul,  as  the  sky  clings 

Round  the  mute  earth,  forever  beautiful, 

And  if  o'erclouded,  only  to  burst  forth 

More  all-embracingly  divine  and  clear. 

Get  but  the  Truth  once  uttered,  and  'tis  like 

A  star  new-born,  that  drops  into  its  place. 

And  which  once  circling  in  its  placid  round, 

Not  all  the  tumult  of  the  earth  can  shake. 

I  don't  believe  it  would  be  possible  for  a  man  from 
that  great  gulf  State  to  have  written  the  letter  of 
Clement  Clay  to  his  wife  when,  after  the  war,  he  was 
unjustly  incarcerated  at  Fortress  Monroe: 

Do  what  you  can  for  the  comfort  of  my  parents.  .  .  . 


68  My  Beloved  South 

Try  to  exercise  charity  to  all  mankind,  forgiving  injuries, 
cherishing  hatred  to  none,  and  doing  good  even  to  enemies. 
This  is  true  wisdom,  even  if  there  were  no  life  beyond  the 
grave  because  it  is  the  best  way  of  securing  peace  of  mind 
and  of  promoting  mere  worldly  interests. 

To  forgive  our  enemies  is  hard;  to  do  good  to  them 
is  harder.  I  have  known  but  one  person  who  even 
contemplated  it.  Mrs.  Mackay,  who  had  suffered 
from  the  malice  of  two  fashionable  American  women, 
offered,  when  they  encountered  reverses  and  contem- 
plated going  into  business,  to  furnish  the  capital  if 
her  name  could  be  kept  a  secret.  I  have  never  had  any 
money  to  give  my  friends,  but  I  have  grave  doubts 
whether,  even  if  I  had  a  fortune,  I  should  wish  to 
enrich  my  enemies. 

Wells,  in  his  excellent  but  not  always  understanding 
book,  The  Future  of  America — for  after  all  he  was  only 
six  weeks  in  that  vast  land — said  that  every  man  above 
forty  and  most  of  those  below  that  limit  seemed  to  be 
enthusiastic  advocates  of  unrestricted  immigration, 
"and,"  he  adds,  "I  could  not  make  them  understand 
the  apprehension  with  which  this  huge  dilution  of  the 
American  people  with  profoundly  ignorant  foreign 
peasants  filled  me."  But  there  is  no  danger.  Every 
age  must  take  care  of  itself.  America  was,  under  the 
providence  of  God,  established  as  the  home  of  the 
desolate  and  oppressed,  and  this  is  her  destiny.  In  her 
vast  melting-pot  old  evils  disappear  like  dross,  and 
new  forces  are  fused  into  a  metal  whose  purity  the 
future  alone  can  test.  It  must  not  be  forgotten  that 
she  receives  these  peasants  in  their  ignorance  and  need, 
gives  them  food  for  their  bodies,  instructs  their  minds, 
and  endows  them  with  fresh  energy.  And  Mr.  Wells 
does  n't  realise  that  when  America  stretches  out  her 


Inexorable  Texas  69 

strong  arm  and  takes  to  her  broad  bosom  all  nationali- 
ties, Scandinavians,  Germans,  Frenchmen  or  Irish- 
men, she  transforms  them  in  six  months  or  a  year 
into  loyal  citizens.  Whether  it  be  the  hope  born 
of  a  fresh  environment,  new  possibilities  or  newly 
awakened  self-respect,  the  subtle  influence  of  the 
boundless  forests,  the  great  Lakes,  the  long  chains  of 
mountains,  or  vast  noble  prairies  like  those  of  Texas, 
something  vital  holds  a  man  in  a  mighty  grasp  in  our 
mighty  land.  His  soul,  freshly  awakened,  lifts  up  its 
voice  and  cries  out,  "I  am  an  American."  We  take 
the  discordant  elements  of  all  the  world,  and  remould 
them  into  law-abiding  citizens,  ready  to  shoulder  a 
musket  in  defence  of  our  country  and  of  Liberty. 
What  other  country  can  do  it?  But  we  have  done  it, 
and  are  doing  it  every  day. 


CHAPTER  V 

ACROSS   THE    SEA   TO  MARYLAND 

Better  a  day  of  strife 

Than  a  century  of  sleep. 

Give  me  instead  of  a  long  stream  of  life, 

The  tempests  and  tears  of  the  deep. 

Father  THOMAS  RYAN. 

WHEN  the  responsibility  of  my  own  life  was  sud- 
denly and  violently  thrust  upon  me  and  I  found 
myself  homeless  and  alone,  the  waves  of  misery  which 
rushed  over  and  submerged  me  were  so  thunderous 
and  heavy,  they  left  me  bruised,  beaten,  and  broken. 
Blindly  I  struggled  to  shore,  as  one  already  dead. 
The  first  thing  that  brought  me  to  life  was  the  voice  of 
a  little  child. 

It  was  a  long,  long  way  off,  and  it  was  only  in  my 
dreams,  but  one  day  it  came  closer,  and  then  the  dear 
Love,  my  grandson,  rushed  into  my  room  and  said, 
"Damma,  you  have  come  to  live  with  us,  and  must 
never  go  away  again,  not  for  one  minute!"  And  all 
these  precious  words  were  said  between  little  close, 
bear-like  hugs  and  haphazard  warm  kisses.  When  he 
left  me  the  drought  of  my  tears  was  over.  I  could 
weep  again,  and  life  could  not  be  altogether  desolate 
when  the  day  began  with  play  and  toys.  Quite  early 
in  the  morning  my  bedroom  door  was  flung  open  with 
a  cheerful,  "Well,  little  Dam!"  and  the  Love,  with  his 

70 


Across  the  Sea  to  Maryland  71 

hands  full  of  soldiers,  or  ducks,  or  bears,  or  boats, 
would  perch  himself  on  my  bed.  And  when  he  re- 
turned to  his  nursery  he  always  left  one  little  toy  so 
that  "  Damma  would  n't  be  lonesome."  And  so  through- 
out the  day,  if  my  troubles  weighed  too  heavily  upon 
me,  I  would  touch  for  a  moment  the  toy  soldier,  or  the 
little  boat,  or  the  woolly  dog,  and  they  brought  me 
consolation. 

But  the  nights  were  dreadful,  the  long  nights  of 
hideous  sleeplessness,  with  one  maddening  thought 
hammering  my  brain  into  pulp.  I  was  like  an  uprooted 
plant  dying  in  a  new  soil.  Lura,  my  sweet  Love's  mother 
and  an  affectionate  daughter  to  me,  said:  "Mother, 
you  must  go  to  America  and  get  well,  not  to  New  York, 
not  to  Washington,  not  to  any  of  the  large  cities,  but 
go  down  to  the  very  heart  of  the  South,  go  where  the 
sun  shines.  Go,  dear,  it  will  prove  a  healing  balm  to 
your  spirit;  I  am  sure  it  will."  And  I  looked  into  my 
little  Love's  beautiful  eyes  and  said: 

"What  seek  you,  soul  that  never  sleeps, 
Within  these  loved  eyes'  crystal  deeps? 

I  seek  content,  content. 
The  eyes  allure  and  they  are  dear, 
Still  I  must  go — it  is  not  here." 

But  a  horribly  sad  inertia  possessed  me,  and  it  was 
months  before  I  could  gather  strength  enough  to  cross 
the  Atlantic,  although  it  is  the  easiest  thing  possible 
to  go  to  Tilbury,  get  on  board  one  of  the  Atlantic 
Transport  Line  Steamers,  and  almost  immediately  a 
beneficial  rest  cure  begins.  The  boats  are  particularly 
comfortable  and  quiet;  they  are  primarily  built  for 
carrying  valuable  cattle,  and  the  accommodation  for 
horses,  cows,  sheep  and  pigs,  is  vastly  more  comfort- 


72  My  Beloved  South 

able  and  better  ventilated  than  third-class  passengers 
get  on  the  larger  steamers. 

I  often  cross  on  this  line  and  always  go  down  on  the 
lower  deck  to  see  the  four-footed  travellers;  sometimes 
they  are  valuable  thoroughbreds,  or  a  hundred  draft 
horses,  big,  black,  brown  and  bay  fellows,  from  Belgium, 
France,  and  England. 

Once  there  were  sixty  Egyptian  donkeys  with  us, 
beauties  in  colour,  colossal  in  size  and  also  in  voice. 
One  morning  when  a  loud  noise  clove  the  air,  a  lady 
passenger  turned  alarmed  and  said  to  me:  "What  a 
strange  thing,  the  fog  whistle  is  blowing  and  there 
is  n't  any  fog.  Something  serious  must  be  the  matter." 
But  it  was  only  an  Egyptian  donkey  braying  a  regret 
for  the  Nile.  And  there  are  occasional  prize  dogs, 
beautiful  fluffy-haired  cats,  and  wonderfully  bred  guinea 
pigs  with  such  long  feathery  hair,  high  crests,  and  top- 
knots that  they  bear  a  strange  likeness  to  unwinged 
cockatoos.  And  the  gulls  followed  us,  those  gipsies  of 
the  air,  darting  here  and  there  or  balanced  on  a  wave 
almost  all  the  way  to  New  York.  The  service  is 
excellent  on  these  sensible  ships,  the  food  is  good  and 
abundant.  The  nine  or  ten  days  of  our  voyage  passed 
quickly,  for  there  were  most  agreeable  people  on  board. 

Dr.  Venning,  from  Charles  Town,  in  West  Virginia, 
helped  me  by  a  good  deal  of  sound  advice.  I  think  I 
never  saw  a  saner,  healthier,  kinder  or  more  capable 
man  than  this  young  surgeon.  His  mind,  his  body,  and 
his  work  are  all  attuned  to  his  profession  which  make 
for  success.  He  drinks  neither  tea,  coffee  nor  stimu- 
lants of  any  kind.  He  sleeps  in  the  open  air,  lives  on 
simple  food,  has  a  contented  mind  and  is  altogether  a 
Man — frank,  honest,  and  straightforward.  He  is  hap- 
pily married,  is  an  intelligent,  strict  father,  and,  above 


Across  the  Sea  to  Maryland  73 

all,  he  is  deeply  interested  in  his  profession  and  am- 
bitious about  his  work.  In  his  short  vacation  in 
England  he  had  spent  every  afternoon  in  the  operating- 
room  of  some  hospital,  and  yet  he  could  drop  his 
work  and  all  thought  of  it  in  a  minute,  talk  about 
any  subject  under  the  sun,  and  laugh  with  the  hearti- 
ness of  a  boy.  What  a  help  his  very  presence  must  be 
in  the  sick  room! 

When  we  arrived  in  New  York  I  lingered  unneces- 
sarily. My  healing  had  not  begun — I  had  not  enough 
energy  to  unpack  and  leave  my  winter  belongings,  and 
take  out  my  lighter  clothes  for  the  South.  And  Julia, 
one  of  my  adopted  daughters,  begged  me  to  stay.  I 
have  five  adopted  daughters — Helen,  for  brilliancy  and 
inspiration;  Caroline,  for  beauty  and  gentleness;  Bee, 
for  loyalty  and  unselfishness;  dear  Margaret  Douglas 
for  sweetest  sympathy  and  appreciation,  and  Julia  for 
love  and  honeyed  flattery  (Ah,  what  soothing  balm!). 

Julia  is  of  good  birth  and  lineage,  a  tall,  fair  daughter 
of  the  South,  and  through  certain  qualities  she  has 
won  success  in  that  hard  city.  The  stranger  passing 
up  and  down  Fifth  Avenue  can  see  on  a  modest  but 
very  distinct  sign, 

Miss  CARROLL 

Gowns. 

This  is  the  way  it  came  about.  Julia,  with  a  negro 
Mammy,  living  in  New  York,  was  somewhat  helplessly 
looking  round  for  work  when  she  and  the  negress,  a 
beautiful  needlewoman,  made  a  Southern  gown  for  a 
Southern  woman  going  to  Saratoga.  It  was  one  of 
those  cobwebby  New  Orleans  organdies,  trimmed  with 
much  Valenciennes  insertion  and  lace,  with  here  and 
there  a  heavenly  satin  bow  made  by  Mammy,  whose 


74  My  Beloved  South 

genius  lay  in  that  direction.  The  dress  was  an  instan- 
taneous success,  and  Julia  became  a  specialist  in  wash- 
dresses.  Later,  silk  and  fine  woollen  gowns  were  added 
to  her  jaconets  and  muslins,  and  now  she  goes  to  Paris 
twice  a  year  and  all  the  latest  modes  fashioned  from 
the  most  wonderful  materials  are  to  be  found  in  her 
splendid  shop,  with  its  setting  of  beautiful  antique 
furniture,  carved  mirrors,  cases  of  old  fans,  china, 
and  bric-a-brac.  This  success  has  grown,  not  out 
of  the  rosebud  organdie,  but  from  Julia's  tact — tact 
in  the  morning,  tact  in  the  afternoon,  tact  in  the 
evening.  Julia  puts  it  on  like  armour  before  the  poly- 
glot waiter  arrives  in  her  apartment  with  her  break- 
fast. 

"Where,"  she  said  to  a  strange  dark  little  man,  "is 
Tony?" 

"Gone,  Madame." 

"And  do  you  take  his  place?" 

"Yes,  Madame." 

"And  what  are  you?" 

"A  Greek,  Madame;  I  am  going  back  to  Athens  in 
the  spring  for  the  Olympic  games." 

"And,"  said  Julia,  very  sweetly, — but  absent-mind- 
edly, looking  at  his  queer  little  knock-kneed  legs — "do 
you  take  part  in  the  Olympic  games?" 

The  poor  creature  tried  to  stand  straight,  and  said 
with  an  air  of  pride,  "No,  Madame,  that  is  .  .  .  ' 

"Ah,"  said  Julia,  "I  am  sure  you  could"  And 
whenever  after  that  she  telephoned,  the  Olympian 
appeared  with  lightning  rapidity. 

Moreover,  Julia  does  n't  only  listen  to  bores,  she 
goes  further;  she  drinks  in  what  they  have  to  say  and 
laughs  spontaneously  at  their  witless  jokes.  It  is 
royally  splendid.  Of  course  now  and  then  she  has  to 


Across  the  Sea  to  Maryland  75 


retire  to  a  sanatorium  to  seek  silence  and  a  rest  cure, 
for  eternal  tact  tries  the  most  robust  health. 

One  of  her  customers  has  a  chicken  farm,  and,  next 
to  the  agricultural  department,  there  is  no  one  who 
knows  so  much  of  cocks  and  hens,  their  food  and  their 
vagaries  as  Julia.  Another  is  a  rose  grower,  and  on 
slugs  too  she  could  take  a  degree.  Her  true  position 
in  the  world  should  be  that  of  an  ambassadress  in  a 
foreign  country  having  very  complicated  relations  with 
America, — Japan,  for  example.  With  Julia  there  to 
pour  oil  on  the  troubled  waters,  we  would  never  be 
embroiled  in  war. 

So,  without  energy,  I  stayed  on.  The  first  impetus 
to  encourage  my  departure  occurred  at  a  charming 
dinner  in  the  house  of  that  wonderfully  successful 
woman,  Elizabeth  Marbury.  She  lives  in  Washington 
Irving's  pretty,  old  house  in  Seventeenth  Street;  it  is 
decorated  and  furnished  in  perfect  taste  by  her  friend 
and  comrade,  Elsie  de  Wolfe,  and  is  one  of  the  few  old 
landmarks  left  in  that  restless  city  of  constant  change 
and  continual  progress. 

I  remembered  that  my  grandfather  had  dined  with 
Washington  Irving  in  this  very  house.  In  that  white 
dining-room  whose  walls  must  have  heard  many  a 
brilliant  jeu  d?  esprit,  he  had  talked  and  laughed  and 
told  stories  (for  he  was  a  famous  raconteur)  which 
that  delightful  writer  afterwards  used  in  Wolfert's 
Roost. 

I  heard  at  my  left  a  fragment  of  conversation  be- 
tween a  Southern  lady,  living  in  England,  and  Professor 
Pupin. 

"Are  you,"  she  said,  "an  American?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  am." 


76  My  Beloved  South 

"Then  why  your  foreign  accent?"  she  asked. 

"I  like  it,"  he  replied. 

"So  do  I,"  she  said,  "but,  as  an  American,  I  don't 
think  you  are  entitled  to  it.  But  now  that  we  have 
settled  the  question  of  your  nationality,  where  do  you 
really  come  from?" 

He  said  smiling,  "I  am  a  Slav.  Does  that  mean 
anything  to  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  "a  Slav  can  come  from  Poland, 
or  Russia,  or  Bulgaria." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  the  professor  replied,  "I  hail 
from  a  place  that  doubtless  you  have  never  heard  of, 
the  Balkans." 

"The  Balkans!"  said  the  lady,  with  a  twinkle  in  her 
eye.  "Why,  my  husband  has  been  devoted  to  a  lady 
in  London  for  twenty  years,  who  lives  round  the  corner 
from  us,  and  whenever  I  ask  him  where  she  is  he  always 
says,  '  In  the  Balkans. ' 

"Now  why,"  said  the  professor,  "this  long  devo- 
tion?" 

"Well,"  said  the  lady,  "this  Greek  siren  is  said  to 
be  wicked,  beautiful,  and  fascinating." 

"Surely,"  said  the  professor,  "you  don't  expect  a 
man  to  withstand  so  seductive  a  combination?" 

"No,"  said  the  lady,  "I  am  very  broad-minded;  I 
don't  expect  a  man  to  withstand  any  combination." 

"That,"  said  the  professor,  "is  very  kind  of  you, 
but  it  shows  a  lack  of  credulity.  A  perfect  woman 
should  always  be  trusting." 

"The  Balkan  influence,"  said  the  lady,  "destroys 
trust,  and  I  make  no  pretence  to  perfection." 

"Listen!"  said  the  professor;  "they  are  talking 
about  New  Thought  across  the  table.  Are  you  inter- 
ested in  it?" 


77 

"A  bit,"  answered  the  lady,  "but  I  have  a  much 
older  religion  than  that." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  professor. 

She  replied,  "I  am  a  London  Buddhist." 

"That  sounds  broad,"  said  the  professor,  "and  what 
does  your  creed  embody?" 

Said  the  lady :  "Reincarnation,  tolerance,  quick  under- 
standing— for  instance,  when  I  meet  a  very  agreeable 
man,  with  a  foreign  accent,  but  an  American  at  heart,  I 
know  that  we  have  been  friends  in  a  Paleozoic  time." 

"Fair  lady,"  said  the  professor,  "I  see  that  you,  too, 
are  from  the  Balkans." 

As  I  listened,  I  said  to  myself,  "Southern  people 
still  possess  the  art  of  conversation.  I  will  go  to  the 
South  and  be  amused." 

And  next  morning  letters  came  from  Washington  which 
aroused  me  to  immediate  action.  My  brother  Sam  wrote : 

BRIERBANK, 

CHEVY  CHASE,  MARYLAND, 
December  15th. 

DEAREST  BESSIE, 

Lois  and  I  were  delighted  to  read  this  morning  of  your 
arrival  in  New  York.  Of  course  you  are  coming  to  spend 
Christmas  in  the  bosom  of  your  family,  so  write  us  how  soon 
you  will  arrive.  We  will  give  you  Maryland  oysters,  a 
Virginia  turkey,  fresh  cranberry  sauce,  candied  sweet 
potatoes,  fried  hominy  and  bully  ice  cream.  I  will  guaran- 
tee you  will  relish  your  Christmas  dinner. 

Our  house  is  full  of  servants  to  wait  on  you,  I  do  not 
know  whether  with  judgment,  but  I  am  sure  you  will  be 
entertained  and  amused.  The  butler,  the  cook's  husband, 
got  his  house  training  from  driving  a  Knox  express  waggon 
for  nineteen  years,  and  is  just  a  trifle  absent-minded  as  to 
plates  and  dishes.  In  the  dining-room  when  he  is  not 
falling  over  his  own  feet,  he  is  absently  standing  on  his 


78  My  Beloved  South 

heels,  but  if  you  remind  him  of  food,  he  will  willingly  serve 
it  to  you,  for  he  is  amiable  and  well-disposed. 

Our  chambermaid  is  one  Harrison  Leffingwell,  who  came 
to  be  a  chauffeur  but  fell  from  the  motor  to  making  beds, 
as  soon  as  I  perceived  that  he  did  n't  know  the  difference 
between  a  radiator  and  a  trunk  rack.  He  is  shaped  like 
Sir  Richard  Calmady,  but  he  can  walk  and  Sir  Richard 
could  not;  and  he  makes  a  better  chambermaid  than  the 
wenches,  who  are  not  willing  to  leave  the  city.  I  have  an 
idea  that  you  will  be  able  to  get  more  work  out  of  Harrison 
Leffingwell  than  we  do.  He  likes  fine  clothes,  so  bring 
your  best  frocks  along,  and  he  likes  the  grand  air,  and  being 
ordered  about.  We  have  told  him  that  you  are  English, 
so  he  is  already  duly  impressed. 

I  regret  to  say  the  one  time  he  drove  the  motor  he  sent 
it  to  the  machine  shop  for  a  fortnight's  repairs,  so  I  cannot 
meet  you  at  the  station,  but  Harrison  will  be  there  to  take 
all  the  enormous  quantities  of  useless  and  unnecessary 
luggage  you  English  carry  about  with  you,  and  will  put  it 
on  the  car  which  almost  passes  our  door. 

Lois  is  busy  with  the  Christmas  tree.  Mysterious  pack- 
ages continually  arrive  and  the  children  are  full  of  vivid 
interest  in  them.  I  am  going  to  keep  Coco  until  the  end  of 
your  visit,  although  he  is  in  danger  of  sudden  dissolution, 
being  such  a  vagabond  that  he  will  not  stay  in  the  house, 
and  the  police  are  on  the  track  of  all  wandering  dogs.  Not 
even  a  muzzle  will  save  him,  as  there  is  an  epidemic  of 
rabies  in  Chevy  Chase;  but  I  know  you  would  like  to  see 
him  before  he  goes  as  a  "paying  guest"  to  the  country.  I 
shall  have  to  send  him  a  good  long  distance  from  home, 
otherwise  he  will  turn  up  again,  as  he  dislikes  darkies  as 
much  as  a  Northern  man.  And  the  only  person  I  can  get 
to  take  him  until  the  epidemic  is  over  is  a  negro  farmer 
living  in  Virginia. 

Expecting  to  see  you  soon, 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

SAM. 


Across  the  Sea  to  Maryland  79 

Coco  was  a  friend  of  yester  year,  an  interesting 
mongrel  brought  over  from  England  by  a  dog  fancier  as 
a  hound  of  the  purest  breed.  But  he  seemed  to  have 
been  crossed  by  a  mastiff,  for  he  soon  began  to  grow 
to  an  enormous  size  and  his  owner  in  disgust  turned 
him  loose  upon  the  community,  where  he  picked  up  a 
precarious  living,  until  he  made  acquaintance  with 
Sam.  Then  began  his  morning  calls  at  Brierbank. 
These  continued  for  a  few  weeks,  until  one  afternoon, 
very  quietly  and  unobtrusively,  he  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  and  stowed  himself  away  in  a  dark  corner.  A 
few  successive  afternoons  he  did  the  same  thing;  a 
little  later  he  extended  his  visits  until  evening,  and  one 
blessed  night  he  stayed  until  next  day,  and  after  that 
was  legally  adopted. 

The  days  of  his  vagabondage  were  over;  he  was 
homeless  no  longer,  and  he  never  put  on  airs,  remember- 
ing the  time  of  his  poverty  and  waifdom. 

He  was  always  enthusiastically  grateful  for  the 
smallest  attention,  or  the  slightest  notice.  His  tail 
was  like  that  of  a  beaver,  broad,  wide  and  muscular. 
"Hello,  Coco!"  and  that  heavy  tail  delivered  a  rapid 
number  of  heavy  thumps,  while  "Good  Coco,  good  old 
dog,"  made  him  hysterical  with  delight,  and  brought 
down  a  volley  of  thunderous  strokes  which  fairly  shook 
the  house. 

On  my  former  visit  to  Chevy  Chase  Coco  and  I  had 
become  devoted  friends,  and  I  rejoiced  to  know  he  would 
be  there  to  welcome  me.  He  was  not  like  "Carlo," 
the  collie  of  Sam's  neighbour  across  the  way,  quite 
unselfish,  gentle  with  children,  always  ready  to  play 
with  them,  no  matter  how  tired,  and  a  perfect  gentle- 
man; but  he  had  his  good  points,  and  considering 
the  want  of  training  and  education  of  his  puppy  hood, 


8o  My  Beloved  South 

Coco  was  a  very  excellent  specimen  of  the  self-made 
dog. 

Another  of  my  letters  was  from  Mary  Clark,  the 
loyal  and  faithful  friend  of  many  years.  She  wrote: 

I  want  you  very  much  for  Christmas  week,  but  if  the 
family  claim  you,  then  my  week  must  come  later;  but  for 
Christmas  dinner  I  must  have  you.  I  know,  dear  Bessie- 
kins,  how  you  still  enjoy  many  things  that  grown-ups  no 
longer  care  for,  and  Bee  and  I  (her  daughter  and  my  dearly 
loved  friend)  have  been  preparing  a  surprise  for  you,  an 
old-fashioned  Southern  Christmas.  Write  or  telegraph 
to  me  at  once,  dear. 

Mary,  though  a  Southern  woman,  is  extraordinarily 
prompt  and  exact.  She  has  not  a  drop,  like  me,  of  the 
"Old  Reliable"  blood  in  her  veins.  If  she  arranges  to 
go  on  Tuesday  she  goes;  if  I  arrange  to  go  on  Tuesday 
I  go  on  Wednesday,  or  maybe  on  Thursday  morning,  and 
why  not  if  the  sun  shines  and  someone  wants  me  to 
stay? 

I  telegraphed  to  Mary  that  I  would  come  to  the 
Christmas  dinner,  and  to  Sam  to  expect  me  the  next 
afternoon.  Harrison  Leffingwell  met  me  at  the  station. 
He  really  is  one  of  the  most  comical  looking  negroes  I 
ever  saw.  His  face  is  round  with  a  wide  flat  nose,  a  huge 
mouth,  splendid  white  teeth,  shoulders  broad  enough 
for  a  man  six  feet  tall,  and  arms  extraordinarily  long 
and  strong,  but  he  has  scarcely  any  legs  at  all,  and 
somehow  his  idea  of  covering  the  deficiency  is  to  have 
his  trousers  made  immensely  wide.  Consequently, 
at  a  little  distance  he  looks  like  the  dwarf  of  the  Arabian 
Nights  wearing  Turkish  trousers — certainly  the  lower 
part  of  his  body  has  the  appearance  of  being  attired 
in  harem  garb.  His  strong  long  arms  gathered  up  my 


Across  the  Sea  to  Maryland  81 

numerous  bags  and  impedimenta,  and  we  soon  found 
ourselves  in  Chevy  Chase.  Sam  said  that  Harrison 
as  he  advanced  towards  the  house  was  entirely  obscured 
by  the  luggage,  which  appeared  to  be  walking  alone, 
but  he  was  as  strong  as  a  horse  and  could  have  carried 
more  if  necessary. 

Although  it  was  late  in  December,  the  sun  was  shin- 
ing like  May  and  there  was  every  indication  of  a  very 
green  Christmas.  We  were  quite  sure  of  this  when 
Sam  and  I,  standing  by  a  long  French  window  looking 
out  upon  the  lawn,  saw  a  flash  of  scarlet,  and  a  slender 
Kentucky  cardinal  swung  himself  to  and  fro  on  a  little 
bare  rose-bush.  He  was  soon  joined  by  a  blue-bird, 
with  his  faint  rose  breast  and  his  sweet  little  song,  and 
later  a  silver  dove  fluttered  down  from  a  tall  tree. 

"There,"  said  Sam  "did  you  ever  in  your  life  see 
such  a  good-looking  crowd?  Is  n't  the  red  bird  the 
handsomest  thing  you  ever  laid  your  eyes  on?  And 
that  blue-bird,  with  his  fashionable  rose-coloured 
breast,  I  don't  know  but  after  all  he  is  the  greater  dandy 
of  the  two." 

I  said: 

"And  then  comes  the  blue-bird,  the  herald  of  spring, 
Who  hails  with  his  warble  the  charms  of  the  season." 

"  '  In  mantle  of  sky  blue  and  bosom  so  red — '  "  added 
Sam. 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  "that 's  purely  poetry,  because 
his  bosom  is  n't  really  red,  it 's  pink.  Look  at  his 
profile,  is  n't  it  classic?" 

"I  have  never  seen  red  birds  and  blue-birds  and 
doves  in  December,"  said  Sam;  "they  are  here  to  cele- 
brate your  home-coming.  Look  at  the  combination, 
red,  white,  and  blue, — that 's  to  arouse  your  patriotism." 


82  My  Beloved  South 

Then  Mary  Lois,  Sam's  only  daughter,  came  up  to 
the  garden  walk  and  the  birds  flew  away.  Sam  said, 
"Mary  Lois,  did  n't  you  see  those  birds?  You  should 
have  gone  round  the  back  way." 

Mary  Lois  has,  I  am  sure,  a  successful  career  before 
her.  I  shall  expect  her  even  without  a  dot, — and  this 
will  be  a  greater  triumph  for  America  than  either  a 
polo  victory  or  a  yacht  trophy — to  marry  at  least  a 
Duke.  For  already  at  the  tender  age  of  six  she  has  a 
number  of  admirers,  her  father's  friends,  who  believe 
in  deeds  not  words;  they  give  her  dolls  and  boxes  of 
candy  and  toys  of  every  conceivable  description,  and 
she  has  already  all  the  qualities  to  make  her  popular  as 
a  belle.  In  the  first  place,  of  course,  she  is  very  pretty. 
Men  are  always  talking  about  liking  intellectual  women 
and  admiring  clever  ones,  but  they  fall  in  love  with, 
and  make  tragedies  over  the  pretty  ones.  Beauty 
is  the  most  important  asset,  for  beauty  governs  the 
world. 

Mary  Lois  has  golden  hair,  sympathetic,  observant 
eyes,  a  neat  nose,  and  a  charming  smile  that  she  never 
takes  off.  She  does  not  talk  too  much  and  she  is 
exceedingly  affectionate,  and  oh,  greatest  gift  of  all, 
she  is  for  ever  looking  up  and  adoring.  She  loves 
praise  and  she  loves  to  give  it.  She  is  very  gentle, 
delights  in  pretty  clothes,  keeps  them  clean,  and  is 
always  gentle  and  flattering. 

When  on  a  very  hot  afternoon  a  gentleman,  himself 
a  father,  goes  out  to  Chevy  Chase  laden  with  a  wax 
doll  fashionably  dressed  in  clothes  that  button  and 
unbutton,  and  Mary  Lois's  eyes  sparkle  with  gratitude 
and  love  and  adoration  as  he  presents  it  to  her,  my 
hopes  for  a  future  Duke  are  in  the  ascendant.  She 
takes  every  correction  with  gentle  placidity,  and  she  was 


Across  the  Sea  to  Maryland  83 

immediately  sorry  that  she  had  not  gone  through  the 
back  garden,  and  avoided  scaring  the  birds  away. 

Harrison  Leffingwell  proved  an  excellent  servant. 
He  brushed  my  clothes,  gave  my  shoes  a  brilliant  polish, 
cleaned  my  silk  blouses,  pressed  my  tailor-made  coats 
and  skirts,  an4  showed  real  talent  as  a  maid.  Also, 
when  we  got  to  know  each  other  better  he  told  me  he 
was  a  solo  singer  in  his  church  and  sang  hymns  varied 
with  rag-time  tunes  to  me,  and  certainly  he  has  a 
beautiful  tenor  voice  and  is  quite  capable  of  making  a 
success  in  vaudeville.  I  asked  him  one  day  whether 
he  would  go  to  England  to  live  with  me.  He  said  he 
would  like  it  immensely.  Sam  was  at  once  interested 
about  a  livery  for  him.  He  thought  there  ought  to 
be  scarlet  somewhere,  either  a  scarlet  waistcoat  or  a 
scarlet  tie,  and  a  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons  and  a 
scarlet  collar.  He  said:  "Harrison  can  do  the  work  of 
a  maid,  answer  the  door,  wait  •  at  table,  and  then  in 
the  evening  you  can  call  him  in,  and  let  him  entertain 
your  guests.  It  seems  to  me  Leffingwell  will  be  a  unique 
ornament  to  your  establishment." 


CHAPTER  VI 

CHRISTMAS  AND  OLD  MEMORIES 

Rose  is  red  and  violet's  blue, 
Sugar  's  sweet  and  so  are  you, 
If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 
No  knife  can  cut  our  love  in  two. 

L3VE  is  a  poor  invertebrate  thing,  unless  the  people 
who  care  for  each  other  are  congenial.  They  must 
enjoy  long  talks,  spontaneous  laughs,  long  silences, 
and  the  confidences  that  only  midnight  brings;  for 
there  is  something  about  that  hour  which  induces  a 
true  communion  of  spirits.  How  Sam  and  I  have 
owled  it,  talking  far  into  the  morning,  until  Lois  has 
called  out,  "Are  you  two  ever  coming  to  bed?" 

In  every  family  certain  members  are  particularly 
congenial  to  each  other.  We  two  seem  to  have  so 
much  to  talk  about — our  father,  first  and  best  of  all. 
I  can  always  talk  of  him,  and  Sam,  who  was  only  four 
when  our  father  died,  can  always  listen.  "  You  know,"  I 
said,  disregarding  Lois,  "Pappy  was  like  the  Pied  Piper 
of  Hamelin  with  the  tail  of  childern  following  after  him. 
He  had  kept  the  heart  of  a  child  and  was  one  of  them, 
and  his  pockets  bulged  with  candy  and  oranges  for  the 
little  ones.  He  was  tender  to  all  humanity,  and  he  had 
a  great  taste  for  romance!" 

And  I  told  Sam  my  father's  story  of  Jonathan  Meigs, 
who,  some  four  generations  ago,  was  a  suitor  for  the 

84- 


Christmas  and  Old  Memories  85 

hand  of  a  charming  coquettish  Virginia  beauty.  He 
was  desperately  in  love  with  her  and  anxiously  un- 
certain as  to  his  fate.  At  last  after  months  of  abject 
devotion  on  his  part,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  offer  her 
his  hand  and  heart,  feeling  that  if  she  refused  him  it 
would  mean  a  life-long  disappointment. 

The  young  lady  lived  on  Capitol  Hill  in  a  house  with 
a  garden  in  front  and  a  long  flagged  path  leading  to  the 
gate.  One  beautiful  moonlight  night  while  she  was 
sitting  on  the  balcony,  and  the  mocking-bird  trilled 
a  love  song  to  his  mate,  Jonathan  took  his  courage  in 
both  hands  and  proposed  to  the  love  of  his  life.  She 
was  uncertain — said  she  liked  him  very  much,  but  she 
did  not  love  him  and  could  not  marry  him.  The  blow 
of  her  refusal  was  even  more  terrible  than  he  had  anti- 
cipated, and  when  he  said  good-night  to  her  and  walked 
down  the  path,  the  moonlight  streaming  on  his  bare 
head,  she  saw  a  face  of  deathlike  pallor,  and  his 
shoulders  were  bent  like  those  of  an  old  man. 

In  that  moment  pity  entered  her  gentle  heart,  and  a 
tender  maternal  love  came  fluttering  after  it,  for  the 
love  of  every  true  woman  should  have  in  it  something 
of  the  mother  too.  As  Jonathan  reached  the  front 
gate  and  raised  the  latch,  he  heard  a  sweet,  gentle, 
tender  voice  say,  "Return,  Jonathan!  Jonathan! 
Return ! "  In  a  moment  he  was  a  man  again,  the  colour 
came  back  to  his  face,  he  raised  his  head  like  a  crest, 
squared  his  shoulders,  and  walked  up  the  path  with  the 
proud  step  of  a  soldier  who  had  won  a  battle.  She 
was  standing  on  the  balcony,  and  he  knelt  down  before 
her  and  kissed  the  hem  of  her  gown,  saying,  "God 
bless  you,  dear,  for  those  beautiful  words,  'Return, 
Jonathan. ' 

They  were  married,  and  when  the  first  baby  came 


86  My  Beloved  South 

there  was  a  grand  christening,  and  the  name  given  to 
it  was  "Return  Jonathan." 

There  have  been  four  Return  Jonathans  in  the 
Meigs  family  since. 

"I  hope,"  said  Sam,  "the  name  will  ever  continue." 

The  story  of  Senator  Pettus  was  another  of  Pappy's 
favourite  love  stories.  Young  Pettus  belonged  to  an 
excellent  family,  but  his  father  had  a  moderate  income 
and  he  did  not  go  to  college.  When  he  fell  in  love  it 
was  with  a  girl  of  high  education,  great  beauty  and 
vaulting  ambition.  She  liked  the  attentions  of  the 
frank,  agreeable  young  man,  but  when  he  proposed 
marriage  to  her  she  said,  "Mr.  Pettus,  when  I  marry 
it  must  be  a  college-bred  man,  and  a  man  of  energy  and 
ambition.  Life  holds  for  me  more  than  love." 

He  took  his  defeat  very  quietly,  and  the  next  thing 
she  heard  of  him  was,  that  he  had  gone  to  college  with- 
out even  saying  good-bye  to  her.  The  years  passed 
and  she  received  no  letter  nor  any  indication  whatever 
that  she  was  remembered,  but  her  thoughts  often 
strayed  to  the  young  man  who  had  shown  at  least  a 
practical  regard  for  her  opinion,  for  she  knew  that  his 
college  course  must  have  cost  both  himself  and  his 
family  a  valiant  effort.  At  the  end  of  four  years,  in 
the  sweet  summertime,  she  was  sitting  in  the  garden  in 
a  little  arbour  all  overgrown  with  roses,  when  she  heard 
a  quick,  triumphant  step  coming  up  the  path,  and 
Edmund  Pettus  appeared  before  her,  having  graduated 
brilliantly.  He  laid  his  diploma  on  her  knee  with  a 
low  bow,  saying,  "Madam,  I  have  been  to  college." 

It  had  been  a  hardly  won  guerdon,  for  he  was  not 
like  a  knight  of  old  who  had  fought  his  fight  in  joust 
or  tournament  in  one  glorious  encounter.  His  battle 
had  meant  four  years  of  struggle  and  hard  work,  but 


Christmas  and  Old  Memories  87 

he  had  won.  Of  course  the  lady  was  his,  for  she  looked 
at  the  diploma  with  suspiciously  shining  eyes,  and  said, 
"I  love  it."  And,  he  answered  leaning  over  and  kiss- 
ing her  hand,  "I  hope  you  love  me  a  little  too." 

They  were  married  shortly  afterwards  and  lived 
happy  ever  after.  "Mighty  pretty,"  said  Sam,  "all 
that  old  romance  of  the  South." 

Lois  called  down  the  stairs,  "Do  you  know  the  hour? 
It  is  one  o'clock;  time  for  even  owls  to  stop  hooting." 

"To-morrow,"  said  Sam,  "we  will  go  to  bed  at  nine 
o'clock."  Oh,  those  good  resolutions,  so  delightfully 
broken ! 

The  next  day  was  Christmas,  and  Lois  and  I  went 
into  Washington  to  dine  with  Mary.  The  house  pre- 
sented a  festive  appearance,  with  wreaths  of  holly  and 
bunches  of  holly  and  mistletoe  adorning  the  pretty 
rooms.  The  menu  for  the  feast  included  Blue  Point 
oysters,  fresh  from  the  mouth  of  the  Potomac  River, 
a  splendid  Christmas  turkey  stuffed  with  chestnuts, 
and  served  with  sausages  from  Virginia,  a  smoked  ham 
of  rare  excellence,  fried  hominy,  candied  sweet  potatoes, 
cranberries,  and  wonderful  complex  ice-cream  of 
different  layers  and  colours.  But  the  chef  d'ceuvre  of 
this  dinner  was  my  Santa  Claus  chimney  which  adorned 
the  centre  of  the  table. 

Bee  has  a  singular  talent  for  carpentry  and  the  crea- 
tion of  all  sorts  of  pretty  things,  and  instead  of  a  Christ- 
mas tree  she  had  made  the  top  of  a  chimney.  It  was 
of  wood,  covered  with  red  paper  simulating  little 
bricks.  The  edge  of  the  chimney  was  heaped  thickly 
with  a  deep  layer  of  snow,  which  if  it  was  not  real  snow 
looked  very  like  it  and  lasted  better  than  the  genuine 
article.  The  table  all  around  the  chimney  glittered 
with  snowflakes,  and  Santa  Claus  waited  to  descend 


88  My  Beloved  South 

and  fish  up  the  Christmas  presents  with  a  small 
hook. 

There  was  an  affectionate  thought  for  everybody  at 
the  table,  but  Mary  had  imparted  to  my  family  and 
friends  the  secret  of  the  chimney,  and  the  pretty  things 
drawn  up  for  me  by  that  little  Santa  Claus  and  his 
hook  were  so  numerous  that  I  was  deeply  touched  and 
it  was  more  difficult  for  me  to  smile  than  to  weep.  My 
gifts  were  chosen  with  love  and  discretion,  many  of 
them  being  things  useful  for  a  wanderer  over  the  face 
of  the  earth  like  myself.  When  the  last  remembrance, 
a  silver  book  marker  was  fished  out  of  the  chimney  I 
said,  "Now,  no  more  gifts,  or  I  shall  be  undone." 
Injustice  or  unkindness  has  always  a  hardening  tonic 
effect  upon  me,  but  kindness,  ah!  that  is  different,  it 
touches  me  and  makes  me  weak — it  is  what  I  most 
value  in  life. 

But  with  all  the  affection  and  friendliness  of  my  dear 
ones  in  Washington — Sam,  Lois,  and  Mary,  and  my 
other  dear  Mary,  and  Bee,  and  my  sister  Minnie,  so 
clever,  so  capable,  so  kind  and  unselfish,  with  the 
executive  ability  of  a  statesman  and  the  courage  of  a 
soldier — I  could  not  seem,  even  in  the  midst  of  these 
happy  influences  to  get  any  better  in  health,  so  I 
decided  to  act  on  Mary  Clark's  advice  and  go  into 
Miss  Sylvester's  Nursing  Home  for  a  rest  cure. 

The  evening  that  I  arrived  there,  feeling  desperately 
lonely  and  depressed,  just  as  I  got  out  of  the  carriage 
a  brisk-looking  cheerful  fox  terrier  ran  affectionately 
to  me,  stood  upon  his  hind  legs,  thrust  his  icy  nose  in 
my  hand  and  said,  "Don't  be  downhearted,  I  am  going 
to  stand  by  you,  whatever  happens."  He  then  whisked 
round  and  disappeared,  and  when  I  went  into  the 
house  and  to  my  room,  he  was  sitting  in  the  middle  of 


Christmas  and  Old  Memories  89 

my  bed,  with  his  pink  tongue  hanging  out,  smiling  most 
cheerily. 

The  nurse  said,  "I  am  sorry,  but  you  will  have  to 
send  your  dog  away,  we  do  not  admit  dogs  to  the  Home." 
"He  is  not  my  dog,"  I  said,  "he  is  just  a  sympathetic 
soul  who  has  come  to  give  me  courage."  The  sym- 
pathetic soul,  however,  had  decided  on  the  necessity 
of  remaining  permanently  and  he  sat  perfectly  rigid, 
growling,  and  showing  his  teeth  when  requested  to  go. 
In  the  end,  the  cab  driver  was  called  upstairs  and  led 
him  away.  He  cast  a  regretful  glance  at  me,  which 
seemed  to  say,  "I  am  astonished  that  you  have  refused 
my  kind  offices.  I  had  intended  to  stay  here  and  com- 
fort you."  And,  indeed,  my  last  hope  seemed  to 
vanish  with  him. 

I  cannot  imagine  anything  more  trying  for  a  restless, 
independent  human  being  than  the  first  week  of  a  rest 
cure.  To  give  yourself,  your  mind,  your  body,  your 
desires,  your  wishes  all  completely  into  the  hands  of 
someone  else  is  so  difficult.  It  requires  strength  of 
will  to  endure  it.  My  one  consolation  was  my  secret 
plan  of  a  solitary  elopement.  Every  day  during  my 
rest  I  intended  to  dress  myself  in  the  afternoon,  quietly 
slip  away,  and  appear  unexpectedly  at  Mary  Clark's; 
and  without  my  saying  a  word  Miss  Sylvester  divined 
my  intention.  She  said  she  never  entered  the  room 
without  expecting  to  find  me  gone.  The  next  week 
the  regime  was  easier  to  bear;  the  week  after  that  I 
liked  it;  and  the  fourth  week  I  was  full  of  regret  at 
leaving. 

Miss  Sylvester,  a  Johns  Hopkins  graduate,  is  an 
ideal  nurse,  calm,  firm,  not  affected  by  any  untoward 
symptoms  and  having  much  experience  in  nervous 
diseases.  She  understands  perfectly  how  to  treat 


90  My  Beloved  South 

patients  suffering  from  them.  I  could  not  have  be- 
lieved it  possible  for  anyone  to  have  gained  as  much 
benefit  from  treatment  as  I  did  from  that  rest  cure, 
and  yet  I  did  not  take  it  as  intelligently  as  I  would  a 
second  one.  I  was  not  reconciled  to  the  rigid  rule  of 
seeing  no  one,  and  writing  no  letters  and  just  being 
an  obedient  child,  and  I  struggled  to  the  very  end 
against  my  cold-water  packs.  Two  a  day,  forty 
minutes  altogether  in  a  cold  sheet,  and  yet  nothing 
was  more  beneficial  to  my  raw  and  blistered  nerves 
than  this  lingering  application  of  cold  water.  When 
I  have  time  I  am  going  back  to  take  another  rest  cure, 
and  no  patient  that  Miss  Sylvester  has  ever  had  will 
be  so  docile,  so  obedient,  as  I. 

I  went  back  for  a  few  days  to  Chevy  Chase  before 
going  to  Virginia.  Sam  always  came  to  my  room  in 
the  early  morning  for  our  coffee  together.  "Are  you 
dressed?"  he  asked.  "No,  not  yet,"  I  said.  "Well, 
put  on  your  kimono  and  I  '11  come  in."  We  then 
began  our  usual  long  talk,  and  I  remembered  to  enquire 
one  day  what  had  become  of  our  old  housekeeper.  . 

"Is  Josephine  still  living?"  I  asked  him. 

"No,"  he  said,  "she  died  some  years  ago.  The 
fact  is,  she  never  fully  recovered  from  her  affair  with 
Silas  Bundy." 

"Poor  thing,"  I  said,  "before  that  time  she  had 
never  looked  at  a  man." 

"What  a  misfortune,"  said  Sam,  "that  in  her  middle 
age  she  should  fall  entirely,  helplessly,  violently  and 
jealously  in  love  with  Silas  Scipio  Bundy."  And  as  we 
drank  our  coffee,  Josephine's  love  affair  came  vividly 
back  to  me. 

She  was  a  bright-skinned  mulatto  who  lived  with  us 
from  the  time  we  started  housekeeping  in  Washington. 


Christmas  and  Old  Memories          91 

Her  pretty  face  was  perfectly  round,  with  bright  dark 
eyes,  wavy,  not  kinky,  hair,  and  when  she  smiled  her 
teeth  were  dazzlingly  white.  Being  fat  and  hopelessly 
lazy,  to  compensate  for  her  worthlessness  she  made 
herself  diplomatically  and  flatteringly  agreeable  and 
she  was,  when  necessary,  extremely  capable.  There 
was  no  regularly  appointed  place  in  the  house  for  her, 
but  she  was  generally  filling  in  some  hiatus.  If  the  cook 
was  suddenly  taken  ill,  Josephine  went  into  the  kitchen 
and  we  revelled  in  excellent  meals.  If  the  housemaid 
left  at  a  moment's  notice  she  took  charge  of  the  bed- 
rooms. If  the  butler  decamped  without  warning, 
Josephine  waited  at  the  dining-room  table,  never 
forgot  the  salt,  or  the  pepper,  or  the  mustard,  or  the 
clean  napkins;  arranged  the  flowers  with  an  under- 
standing hand  and  all  went  well  until  the  new  servant 
arrived. 

Generally  speaking,  she  was  a  sort  of  useful  maid, 
sewing  a  little,  answering  the  door  a  little,  brushing 
clothes,  cleaning  shoes;  and  sitting  with  her  hands 
restfully  folded,  waiting  patiently  until  the  time  came 
to  quit  work.  Her  great  attraction  was  her  depend- 
ableness  and  her  domesticity,  for  she  was  consistently 
lazy — her  fondest  lover  could  not  deny  that.  She 
cared  nothing  whatever  for  people  of  her  own  colour, 
she  rarely  ever  went  to  church,  she  never  went  out 
in  the  evening,  and  was  as  much  a  fixture  in  the  house 
as  one  of  the  chairs  or  tables. 

When  Sam  was  born,  a  much  belated,  but  altogether 
welcome  little  brother,  Josephine  became  his  devoted 
nurse.  In  that  capacity  she  was  as  excellent  as  in  all 
others.  She  did  not  wear  out  the  baby's  patience  with 
too  many  clean  pinafores,  or  a  too  clean  face,  but  she 
made  his  childhood  entirely  happy.  He  could  go  out 


92  My  Beloved  South 

in  the  morning  in  the  garden  and  make  mud  pies  all 
day  if  he  liked.  If  he  refused  to  change  his  dress  in 
the  evening  she  took  his  supper  to  the  nursery  and 
regaled  him  with  enchanting  stories  until  he  went  to 
sleep.  He  was  certainly  the  most  adorable  child  I 
ever  saw,  with  deep  sapphire-blue  appealing  eyes,  a 
tow  head,  a  little  round  face  and  a  rare  irresistible 
smile.  Of  course  he  had  his  own  way  in  everything, 
but  he  was  unspoilable. 

All  my  people  have  an  intense  love  of  animals;  in 
Sam  it  is  almost  a  mania.  At  one  period  he  had 
guinea  pigs,  prairie  dogs,  three  chickens,  two  hens  and 
a  rooster,  a  frog,  a  fox  terrier,  spotted  Japanese  mice, 
and  a  good-sized  alligator  of  unusually  rapid  growth. 
Of  all  his  family  he  loved  the  alligator  best.  When  he 
and  the  alligator  were  about  the  same  size,  he  used  to 
carry  him  upstairs  from  the  kitchen  to  the  bathroom 
in  the  evening  for  his  swim.  At  almost  every  step  he 
walked  on  the  alligator's  tail,  and  we  always  expected 
to  see  him  enter  the  bathroom  minus  a  hand  or  an  ear, 
but  strange  to  say,  this  almost  wooden  animal  seemed 
to  have  developed  a  human  heart,  and  he  really  looked 
at  his  little  master  with  eyes  quite  watery  with  affection. 

At  this  time,  when  Sam  was  about  six,  Josephine 
had  moved  down  permanently  into  the  kitchen  as  cook, 
and  was  not  in  the  least  disturbed  by  prairie  dogs  in 
one  corner,  guinea  pigs  in  the  other,  chickens  walking 
in  and  out,  the  fox  terrier  always  under  heel,  and  the 
alligator  generally  asleep  in  the  largest  and  most 
comfortable  chair. 

She  still  retained  the  old  habit  of  never  going  out  of 
the  house  so  how  she  met  Silas  Bundy  remained  for 
ever  a  profound  secret,  but  that  she  did  meet  him  is  a 
tragic  certainty.  Every  Thursday  evening  for  about 


Christmas  and  Old  Memories  93 

six  months,  Silas  Bundy  in  elaborate  attire  called  upon 
Josephine,  who,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  really 
cleaned  up  the  kitchen,  arrayed  herself  in  a  stiffly 
starched  calico  dress,  put  a  table  cover  over  the  large 
table  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  under  this  shoved 
the  cages  of  the  various  animals,  and  arranged  a  deli- 
cious supper  for  the  tall  black  plumber.  Sam  said  he 
hid  himself  under  the  table  with  the  animals  on  several 
occasions,  but  he  never  noticed  any  tenderness  between 
Silas  and  Josephine.  They  conversed  in  a  distant  man- 
ner with  very  large  words  of  their  own  composition. 
Josephine  said  she  was  glad  she  "war  n't  skittish  as 
the  animals,  who  were  always  in  competual  motion." 
Silas  ate  his  supper  and  then  rose  to  go,  saying,  "  Miss 
Josephine,  I  suttenly  will  see  you  dis  nex'  comin' 
Thursday  evening  if  I  live  an'  nothin'  happens." 
And  Josephine  answered,  "Mr.  Silas,  I  suttenly  will 
be  mighty  sorry  if  anything  wuz  to  happen." 

On  St.  Valentine's  Eve  Josephine  got  a  valentine, 
one  of  the  good  old-fashioned  kind  with  two  splendid 
red  hearts  pierced  by  a  gilt  arrow  and  upheld  by  robust, 
be-ribboned  cupids  who  balanced  pink  toes  on  a  cushion 
of  forget-me-nots.  All  this  loveliness  was  surrounded 
by  a  heavy  wreath  of  vivid  pink  roses,  and  underneath 
was  written  in  violet  ink: 

Rose  is  red  and  violet 's  blue, 
Sugar  's  sweet  and  so  are  you, 
If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 
No  knife  can  cut  our  love  in  two. 

Sam  told  me  that  for  many  days,  even  in  the  middle 
of  cooking  dinner,  Josephine  would  get  out  her  valen- 
tine, pull  the  string  that  made  the  wreath  come  forward 
and  the  hearts  overlap,  and  breathe  a  deep  sigh  of 


94  My  Beloved  South 

ecstasy,  then  put  it  back  with  a  few  stray  bits  of  dried 
vegetables  into  her  table  drawer  until  the  next  blissful 
moment  to  look  at  it  arrived;  and  ever  afterwards  it 
was  her  most  treasured  possession. 

Never  going  out  and  never  spending  any  money  for 
many  years,  Josephine  had  saved  a  considerable  sum 
and  was  quite  well  off  for  a  woman  in  her  position,  so 
Silas  was  an  impatient  bridegroom  and  the  future  bride 
fixed  an  early  wedding  day.  All  the  family  gave  her 
useful  and  excellent  presents:  linen  sheets  and  pillow 
cases,  a  quantity  of  towels,  nice  curtains,  kitchen 
utensils,  and  to  these  mother  added  a  whole  set  of 
bedroom  furniture. 

Then  a  day  came  when  all  the  meals  were  full  of  red 
pepper  and  absolutely  uneatable.  Also  the  bride 
elect  was  seen  to  go  restlessly  up  and  down  stairs  at 
least  a  dozen  times — a  thing  that  had  never  occurred 
in  all  the  years  she  had  lived  with  us.  After  supper 
she  and  a  very  cruel  plaited  black  cowhide  whip  with 
an  end  of  knife-like  sharpness,  which  some  friend  had 
sent  Sam  from  Texas,  disappeared  together.  A  "  grape- 
vine telegram"  had  reached  her  about  Silas,  and  she 
waddled  off  to  verify  it.  Perhaps  she  was  not  greatly 
surprised  to  find  him  sitting  in  a  small  cosy  house  with 
a  very  black  lady  by  his  side,  presumably  his  wife,  or 
as  the  darkies  say,  "a  lady  friend."  Josephine  was  a 
very  large  woman,  extremely  muscular  and  strong. 
She  had  never  been  the  least  bit  angry  in  all  her  life, 
but  now  that  she  was  roused,  there  was  an  enormous 
accumulation  of  temper  on  hand  and  she  was  like  an 
elephant  gone  amok. 

She  stormed  the  room  of  the  Silas  Bundys',  gave  him 
a  cut  with  the  keen  lash  of  the  whip  across  the  face, 
severing  the  skin  from  the  flesh,  nearly  blinding  him. 


Christmas  and  Old  Memories  95 

She  then  touched  up  Mrs.  Silas,  who  ran  screaming 
into  the  yard;  and  after  the  Silas  Bundys  there  fol- 
lowed through  the  open  door  a  perfect  avalanche  of 
china,  glass,  pictures  and  furniture.  George  Wash- 
ington and  Lincoln  were  ruined  for  ever  by  splinters  of 
glass  which  scratched  their  faces.  Silas  and  Mrs. 
Bundy  were  also  gashed  and  bleeding  from  cut-glass 
goblets  thrown  with  unerring  aim.  Then  Josephine 
went  upstairs;  and  the  wardrobe  of  Mrs.  Bundy,  torn 
and  fluttering  in  the  breeze,  with  jugs  and  basins  and 
ripped-up  mattresses,  looking-glasses,  Silas  Bundy's 
best  clothes  tattered  and  torn  to  bits,  and  pillows 
emptied  of  their  feathers,  all  wildly  descended  through 
the  window  into  the  garden. 

The  frightened  screams  of  the  Bundys,  or  the  crash 
of  falling  furniture,  or  the  clouds  of  feathers  floating 
out  upon  the  night  attracted  the  notice  of  the  police, 
and  eventually  they  arrived  at  the  gutted  house, 
arrested  Josephine,  and  with  tufts  of  feathers  clinging 
to  their  fine  uniforms,  escorted  her  home  at  ten  o'clock 
for  mother  to  go  her  bail.  If  a  miracle  had  been  per- 
formed, the  family  could  not  have  been  more  surprised. 
That  the  quiet,  sweet-tempered,  amiable  and  conser- 
vative Josephine  should  have  wounded  and  beaten 
husband  and  wife  and  demolished  the  contents  of  an 
entire  house  was  unbelievable,  incomprehensible.  The 
policemen  said  the  wreck  looked  like  the  work  of  a 
cyclone  or  tornado.  Josephine's  eyes  were  of  a  deep 
red  and  the  black  whip  which  she  carried  was  quite 
moist  and  had  a  suspicious  substance  clinging  to  it  that 
might  have  been  and  probably  was  human  skin. 

When  the  day  for  her  trial  came,  Josephine,  escorted 
by  mother,  went  to  court.  A  good  lawyer  was  em- 
ployed for  the  defence.  Silas  and  Mrs.  Bundy,  with 


96  My  Beloved  South 

their  wounds  neatly  dressed,  appeared  against  her. 
Our  lawyer  made  an  excellent  defence,  giving  a  short 
account  of  the  blameless  and  amiable  existence  of  the 
faithful  servant,  and  her  many  years  of  devoted  service. 
He  described  in  glowing  terms  the  blackguardism  of 
the  would-be  bigamist,  sitting  there  in  smug  compla- 
cency by  the  side  of  his  already  one  too  many  wife. 
Mother  was  genuinely  anxious,  for  she  really  loved 
poor  sorry  Josephine. 

The  Judge,  an  old  friend  of  the  family,  with  a  sense 
of  humour,  turned  to  her  and  said,  "Josephine  Paschal, 
what  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself?  "  Josephine, 
the  poor  violent,  destructive,  faithful  elephant,  looked 
at  the  Judge  with  imploring  eyes,  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  turned  down  like  a  yellow  baby  about  to  cry, 
and  for  a  moment  made  no  answer.  Then  bursting 
into  tears,  she  covered  her  face  with  her  nice  clean  apron, 
rocked  her  huge  bulk  violently  backwards  and  forwards 
and  said,  "  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say,  'ceptin'  I  wants  my 
Silas  Bundy — I  des  wants  my  Silas  Bundy,  my  Silas 
Bundy." 

The  whole  court  room  was  convulsed  with  laughter, 
but  Josephine  got  off  without  even  a  fine,  while  Silas 
Bundy  left  the  court  a  vainer  man  than  when  he  entered 
it. 

I  said,  after  I  had  finished  my  coffee,  "How  it  all 
comes  back  to  me  now,  although  I  have  n't  thought  of 
it  for  years!  Poor  Josephine!" 

"And,"  said  Sam,  "although  Josephine  continued 
to  be  a  splendid  cook,  the  light  of  her  life  had  gone  out 
for  ever  with  Bundy.  I  don't  think  she  was  ever  quite 
the  same  again.  One  night  when  the  alligator  had 
grown  too  big  for  me  to  carry  upstairs,  she  carried  him 
up  for  me,  put  him  in  the  bathtub  and  absent-mindedly 


Christmas  and  Old  Memories          97 

turned  on  the  hot  water  and  he  was  scalded  to  death. 
Then  my  heart  was  quite  broken.  For  there  never  was 
such  a  temperamental  alligator,  so  affectionate,  so 
sensible,  and  so  handsome.  Poor  Josephine,  she  never 
saw  Bundy  again,  but  she  was  faithful  to  the  family 
until  her  death." 


CHAPTER  VII 

CHARLES  TOWN  AND  WASHINGTON 

The  man  who  melts 

With  social  sympathy,  though  not  allied, 

Is  than  a  thousand  kinsmen  of  more  worth. 

EURIPIDES. 

\  \  7E  talked  over  various  places  for  my  after  cure,  and 
V  V  I  decided  on  Charles  Town,  West  Virginia.  I 
had  heard  of  its  quaintness,  and  old-time  charm,  and  I 
knew  the  weather  would  be  real  West  Virginia  weather, 
crisp,  frosty,  and  delicious.  Luckily  for  me  my  faithful 
Bee  had  not  the  heart  to  let  me  go  alone,  and  arranged 
that  we  should  take  the  afternoon  train  which  reached 
Charles  Town  about  six  o'clock.  Dr.  Venning  met  us 
at  the  station  and  advised  Miss  Anna  Hughes's  Sana- 
torium. Usually  it  is  a  place  for  active  work,  as  many 
operations  are  performed  there,  but  at  the  moment  it 
was  unusually  quiet. 

I  had  a  delightful  bedroom,  a  little  sitting-room,  and 
a  bathroom  all  on  the  first  floor.  The  weather  was 
not  too  cold  for  us  to  walk  and  drive  about  the  country. 
Bee  is  born  to  understand  and  love  the  whole  animal 
world,  but  horses  are  her  first  favourites,  and  she  is  an 
excellent  whip.  When  she  went  to  the  stable  the  livery 
man,  in  the  process  of  harnessing  the  horse  to  the  buggy, 
said,  "You  Ve  got  a  good  horse  here;  Maud  ain't  got 
but  one  fault  in  the  world  and  that  she  can't  help." 

"What 's  that?"  said  Bee. 


Charles  Town,  West  Virginia          99 

"Well,"  said  the  livery  man,  "she  's  ugly.  She  was 
born  ugly.  She  was  an  ugly  colt,  and  she  's  ugly  now, 
but  except  for  that  she  's  perfect  and  there  ain't  nothin' 
on  earth  that  can  scare  her,  neither  automobile,  nor 
train  nor  nothin'." 

And  Maud  was  not  only  "ugly,"  she  was  uniquely 
ugly.  A  more  singular  looking  animal  cannot  be 
imagined.  She  was  evidently  built  for  the  present 
fashion,  and  could  wear  a  hobble  skirt  with  great 
success.  I  have  never  seen  such  a  narrow  figure,  in 
fact  her  body  looked  like  a  brown  almond  set  on  four 
slim  legs.  Her  head  was  immense  and  very  bony,  but 
she  had  large  lovely  eyes  and  as  the  livery  man  had 
said,  Maud  was  sensible.  Neither  trains  of  cars,  nor 
snorting  motors  made  the  slightest  impression  upon  her. 

A  special  sense  indeed  seemed  to  be  given  to  the 
horses  of  West  Virginia,  for  Dr.  Venning  told  me  of  an 
old  negro  who  was  driving  leisurely  across  a  railway 
track,  and  even  a  long  train  loaded  with  coal  did  not 
in  the  least  hurry  him,  and  when  one  of  the  cars  touched 
and  lifted  the  back  of  the  cart,  almost  turning  it  over,  the 
horse  stood  quite  still,  and  the  old  negro  looking  around, 
called  out  angrily  to  the  passing  train,  "  You-all  better 
min'  out  what  you  're  doing.  I  'm  goin'  straight  home 
and  tell  Marse  John  Carter  de  way  what  you  is  tryin' 
to  destroy  dis  cart,  and  he'  11  come  down  here  and  gib' 
you  a  good  and  planty.  He  will  so,  I  tell  you  dat  right 
now." 

Charles  Town  was  surveyed,  laid  out,  and  settled 
by  Charles  Washington,  a  brother  of  George  Washing- 
ton. And  the  Washington  house  was  its  special  point 
of  interest,  with  a  mantelpiece  of  fine  carved  marble, 
a  gift  from  George  Washington,  and  a  twin  to  the 
dining-room  mantelpiece  in  Mount  Vernon.  The  old 


ioo  My  Beloved  South 

t 

house,  which  still  belongs  to  some  member  of  the  Wash- 
ington family,  is  now  in  the  hands  of  a  working  manager, 
and  though  it  has  a  park  and  noble  trees,  it  is  used 
only  as  a  farm,  and  lacks  the  graces  and  distinction 
that  a  gentleman  would  give  it. 

The  little  town  lies  high  and  is  beautifully  situated. 
It  was  in  the  Charles  Town  court  house  that  John 
Brown  was  tried.  He  was  hanged  in  a  near-by  field, 
now  the  site  of  a  fine  house  of  colonial  architecture, 
which  he  is  good  enough  not  to  haunt,  at  least  they  have 
never  had  any  sign  or  token  of  his  presence.  Indeed 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  stirring  song  of  "John  Brown's 
body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave,  but  his  soul  is 
marching  on,"  I  fear  that  he  himself  would  occupy 
only  a  very  small  and  indifferent  part  in  history. 

One  of  the  most  historic,  interesting,  and  beautiful 
old  places  around  Charles  Town  is  that  of  Mrs.  Briscoe. 
It  is  a  fine  and  exact  copy  of  an  old  English  mansion, 
a  large  square  hall  with  a  quaint  staircase  and  wide 
generous  rooms  on  either  side.  The  beautifully  pro- 
portioned drawing-room  is  papered  with  one  of  those 
charming  hand-painted  panelled  papers  depicting  de- 
lightful Italian  gardens,  with  swans  and  marble  fount- 
ains, and  vistas  beyond  the  bluest  lake,  and  deepest 
green  of  summer.  In  the  hall  there  were  some  interest- 
ing portraits,  one  of  General  William  Dark,  the  grand- 
father of  William  Dark  Briscoe.  He  fought  in  the 
war  of  the  Revolution  and  was  taken  prisoner  and 
confined  in  a  man-of-war  outside  Philadelphia.  He 
said  the  English  soldiers  would  shove  him  a  bowl  of 
soup  and  say,  "There,  drink,  you  rebel  dog." 

Mrs.  William  Dark  dressed  herself  as  a  cabin  boy, 
tied  her  hair  in  a  queue  and  got  on  board  the  ship  to 
see  her  husband.  According  to  a  portrait  she  was  a 


Charles  Town,  West  Virginia         101 

slender,  black-eyed,  rosy-cheeked,  daring  young  Vir- 
ginia lady.  The  commander  of  the  English  man-of- 
war  had  a  keen  eye  for  beauty  and  he  discovered  her 
sex  almost  immediately,  but  was  so  filled  with  admira- 
tion of  her  courage  and  daring,  that  when  she  left  the 
ship,  he  gave  her  a  chest  filled  with  fine  linen  and  lace. 
A  remnant  of  the  latter  is  still  preserved  as  a  family 
heirloom.  Another  portrait  is  of  the  child  of  this 
American  Rosalind,  a  little  girl  with  brown  hair,  neatly 
parted  and  worn  in  curls  on  either  side  of  the  face,  her 
leaf-green  gown  trimmed  with  the  historic  lace,  and  a 
broad  ribbon  and  locket  round  her  neck.  By  the  side 
of  her  portrait  hangs  the  speech  of  Thomas  Jefferson 
on  his  inauguration,  printed  on  white  satin  and  sent 
to  the  Briscoes  by  special  messenger  from  Monticello. 
Among  Mrs.  Briscoe's  treasures  is  a  letter  written 
on  thick,  faded  yellow  paper  and  folded  after  the  old- 
fashioned  manner  to  simulate  an  envelope.  The  red 
seals  still  dangle  on  it,  and  the  handwriting  is  frank 
and  boyish.  It  is  addressed  to  Dr.  John  Briscoe, 
Birkshaugh,  New  Biggin,  Cumberland,  and  the  letter 
reads: 

OUDIHAM,  September,  1663. 

To  Dr.  JOHN  BRISCOE, 

Greeting: 
DEAR  SIR, 

As  the  privy  council  have  decided  that  I  shall  not  be 
disturbed  or  dispossessed  of  the  charter  granted  by  His 
Majesty,  the  Ark  and  the  Pinnace  Dove  will  sail  from 
Gravesend  about  the  first  of  October.  And  if  you  are  of 
the  same  mind  as  when  I  conversed  with  you  I  would  be 
glad  to  have  you  join  the  colony. 
With  high  esteem, 

Your  most  obedient  servant, 

CECILIUS  BALTIMORE. 


102  My  Beloved  South 

Dr.  Briscoe  was  of  the  same  mind  and  sailed  with 
Lord  Baltimore  for  America  and  settled  in  Virginia, 
where  the  Briscoe  family  have  lived  ever  since  and 
have  taken  firm  root,  for  I  think  I  never  saw  people 
love  a  home  more.  Dr.  John  Briscoe's  wife  asked  to 
be  buried  so  that  she  could  look  towards  the  house,  and 
there  is  a  little  shaft  of  granite  in  the  garden  where  she 
wished  it  placed. 

America  instilled  a  strong  love  in  her  colonists.  It 
is  no  infrequent  thing  to  find  an  old  tomb  in  the  beau- 
tiful garden  of  a  Southern  plantation  which  marks  the 
resting-place  of  a  former  owner  who  wished  ever  to 
sleep  among  the  flowers  he  loved  so  well.  There  are 
fine  old  trees  around  the  Briscoe  place,  a  bountiful 
spring  bubbles  up  to  the  right  of  the  house  and  forms 
a  pool,  upon  which  ducks  lead  their  little  broods  for 
their  first  swim.  The  water  is  clear  as  crystal,  is  ice 
cold,  and  by  the  side  of  this  spring  stands  the  spring 
house  where  milk,  watermelons,  and  fruits  are  kept 
cool  on  the  hottest  summer  day.  In  this  little  town,  as 
in  England,  the  young  and  adventurous  leave  for  the 
larger  cities,  but  there  are  men  and  women  in  the 
distant  parts  of  America  who  look  back  to  their  child- 
hood in  Charles  Town  with  affection,  and  whose  tenderest 
memory  is  connected  with  the  old  Briscoe  mansion,  the 
blossoming  apple  and  peach  orchard  and  the  deep  sweet 
spring.  Even  the  stranger  finds  a  warm  welcome  and 
hospitality  from  the  gentle  chatelaine  within  that  gate. 

Another  house  that  greatly  interested  me  was 
"Claymont,"  where  Frank  Stockton  wrote  so  many  of 
his  delighful  books.  It  belonged  originally  to  Bushrod 
Washington,  a  nephew  of  George  Washington.  Mr. 
Stockton  paid  thirty  or  forty  thousand  dollars  for  the 
place,  made  enough  money  to  cultivate  and  improve 


Charles  Town,  West  Virginia         103 

it,  and  left  a  considerable  fortune,  for  humour  always 
commands  its  price.  Dr.  Yenning,  who  was  his 
friend  as  well  as  his  physician,  told  me  he  was  a  firm 
believer  in  realism,  and  at  one  time  when  he  was  in 
New  York  he  called  on  a  noted  surgeon,  sent  in  his 
name,  and  when  he  was  admitted  to  the  consulting- 
room  said:  "Doctor,  I  didn't  come  to  see  you  about 
myself,  I  came  to  consult  you  about  a  very  dear  friend 
of  mine  who  has  met  with  an  accident.  He  was 
knocked  down  on  Broadway,  suffered  a  fracture  of 
the  skull,  and  is  now  in  hospital.  I  am  here  to  ask 
your  further  advice  for  him." 

The  surgeon  stiffened,  and  said,  "I  have  not  seen 
your  friend,  Mr.  Stockton;  but  even  if  I  had,  medical 
etiquette  forbids  that  I  should  interfere  with  the  treat- 
ment of  the  other  physicians  at  the  hospital." 

"Well,  doctor,"  said  Frank  Stockton,  with  a  whim- 
sical smile,  "to  tell  you  the  truth,  the  man  is  a  hero 
of  mine  in  a  book  I  am  writing;  and  now  that  I  have 
got  him  in  hospital  I  don't  know  how  the  dickens  to 
cure  his  wound  and  get  him  out  again.  Perhaps  you 
would  n't  mind  helping  me." 

"Oh,  in  that  event,"  said  the  surgeon,  "I  am  entirely 
at  your  disposal."  So  he  dressed  the  wound,  there 
were  no  complications  following,  the  man  rapidly  got 
well,  and  he  was  out  of  hospital  before  Mr.  Stockton 
left  the  surgeon's  house. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Stockton,  "You  have  treated  with 
unsurpassed  skill  my  friend's  terrible  accident,  roused 
him  from  unconsciousness  and  effected  a  wonderful 
cure,  so  I  must  pay  you  his  fee." 

The  doctor  said,  "  I  could  n't  think  of  such  a  thing." 
But  the  writer  insisted,  and  left  his  fee  upon  the 
surgeon's  table. 


104  My  Beloved  South 

Frank  Stockton  was  a  small,  delicate,  frail  man, 
whose  body  was  not  equal  to  his  active,  creative  mind. 
I  know  no  books  that  have  given  me  purer  joy  than  his. 
He  has  a  charming  style  of  his  own,  and  his  humour  is 
inimitable  and  natural.  Take,  for  example,  the  begin- 
ning of  The  House  of  Martha.  A  precise,  exact,  comfort- 
loving  young  man,  makes  a  long  tour  in  England  and 
on  the  continent.  He  was  not  at  all  fond  of  travelling, 
and  it  was  the  anticipation  of  telling  his  provincial 
friends  who  had  never  crossed  the  ocean,  what  he  had 
seen  and  done,  rather  than  a  love  of  adventure,  which 
caused  his  protracted  journeyings.  But  when  he 
returned  to  the  friendly,  self-centred  New  England 
village,  nobody  was  in  the  least  interested  in  listening 
to  him.  As  soon  as  he  began  to  describe  Windsor 
Castle  to  a  neighbour,  the  lady  interrupted  him  with 
an  account  of  a  blizzard  from  which  the  village  had 
suffered  while  he  was  away,  and  he  found  that  Holyrood, 
Mary  Stuart,  and  the  blood-stain  of  Rizzio,  were  nothing 
in  comparison  to  the  founding  of  the  free  Kindergarten ; 
the  Venus  of  Milo  and  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  paled  into 
insignificance  beside  the  troubles  of  Jane  and  Adelaide 
who  had  to  go  without  music  lessons  for  nearly  ten 
days  on  account  of  measles  in  the  family.  There  was 
one  person  left,  who  he  knew,  would  listen  to  him  with 
appreciation — the  grandmother  who  had  taken  his 
mother's  place.  But  when  he  described  to  her  his 
three  days  in  the  forest  of  Arden,  and  the  veritable 
Jaques  he  met  there,  even  her  attention  wandered 
and  she  remarked:  "That  must  have  been  extremely 
interesting.  Speaking  of  woods,  I  wish  you  would  say 
to  Thomas  that  I  want  him  to  bring  some  of  that  rich 
wood  soil,  and  put  it  round  the  geraniums  nearest  the 
house."  This  was  the  last  straw.  But  the  traveller, 


Charles  Town,  West  Virginia         105 

gifted  with  a  dogged  perseverance,  inserted  in  a  Boston 
paper  this  advertisement.  "Wanted  ...  a  respect- 
able and  intelligent  person  willing  to  devote  several 
hours  a  day  to  the  recitals  of  a  traveller.  Address, 
stating  compensation  expected.  Oral." 

Now,  who  has  not  experienced  in  life,  at  some  time 
or  other,  a  very  great  disappointment  in  a  listener?  I 
know  on  many  occasions  I  have  started  out  with  enthu- 
siasm on  what  I  considered  a  humorous  story  and  in  a 
few  moments  I  have  found  that  nobody  was  paying 
the  slightest  attention,  and  that  the  person  I  had  most 
relied  upon  for  appreciation  had  herself  begun  another 
story,  and  everybody  was  listening  to  her.  The  art  of 
a  good  listener  is  indeed  a  rare  one.  I  never  saw  its 
absence  more  markedly  demonstrated  than  once  in 
London,  when  a  friend  told  a  really  witty  story  and 
told  it  well.  Suddenly  a  lady  who  had  not  heard  a 
word  of  it,  turned  vague  and  empty,  though  kind  eyes, 
towards  the  company  and  said,  "That  was  funny, 
was  n't  it?  It  reminds  me  of  a  story  /  know."  And 
she  proceeded  to  tell  the  same  story  from  beginning  to 
end,  leaving  out  the  point  entirely.  She  never  knew  why 
it  was  greeted  with  such  uproarious  laughter,  thinking, 
of  course,  that  she  had  made  an  enormous  success. 

Beside  Frank  Stockton's  humour,  which  was  original 
and  unexpected,  he  wrote  with  remarkable  charm. 
How  poetical  is  this  little  paragraph  from  The  Late  Mrs. 
Null: 

There  are  times  in  the  life  of  a  man  when  the  goddess 
of  Reasonable  Impulse  raises  her  arms  above  her  head,  and 
allows  herself  a  little  yawn;  then  she  takes  off  her  crown 
and  hangs  it  on  the  back  of  her  throne,  after  which  she 
rests  her  sceptre  on  the  floor,  and,  rising,  stretches  herself 
to  her  full  height,  and  goes  forth  to  take  a  long  refreshim; 


io6  My  Beloved  South 

walk  by  the  waters  of  Unreflection.  Then  her  minister 
Prudence  stretches  himself  upon  a  bench  and  with  his 
handkerchief  over  his  eyes,  composes  himself  for  a  nap. 
Discretion,  Wordly  Wisdom,  and  even  sometimes  that  agile 
page  called  Memory,  no  sooner  see  their  royal  mistress 
depart,  than,  by  various  doors,  they  leave  the  palace  and 
wander  far  away. 

Then,  silently,  with  sparkling  eyes  and  parted  lips,  comes 
that  fair  being  Unthinking  Love.  She  puts  one  foot  upon 
the  lower  step  of  the  throne,  she  looks  about  her,  and  with 
a  quick  bound  she  seats  herself.  Upon  her  tumbled  curls 
she  hastily  puts  a  crown,  with  her  small  white  hand  she 
grasps  the  sceptre,  then,  rising,  waves  it  and  issues  her 
commands.  The  crowd  of  emotions  which  serve  her  as 
satellites  seize  the  great  seal  from  the  sleeping  Prudence, 
and  the  new  Queen  reigns. 

If  there  has  been  a  time  in  the  life  of  a  man  or  a 
woman,  when  Reasonable  Impulse  has  not  been  sup- 
planted by  Unthinking  Love,  then  I  am  sorry  for  them, 
for  they  have  missed  much.  Everyone,  young  or  old, 
should  have  some  little  green  and  fragrant  memory 
hidden  away  from  the  world,  of  spontaneous  impulse, 
of  surprised,  uncalculating  love. 

Dr.  Venning  is  a  bold  motorist  and  we  had  long  drives 
along  the  banks  of  the  Shenandoah,  that  river  so  closely 
associated  with  the  great  soldier,  whose  legion  stood 
a  wall  of  stone,  in  the  fiercest  fire  of  the  enemy.  "  Do 
you,"  I  said,  "remember  the  old  war  poem  about 
Stonewall  Jackson?"  "Yes,"  said  Dr.  Venning,  "I 
used  to  recite  it  with  martial  effect  when  a  boy 

Come !  stack  arms,  men !     Pile  on  the  rails 

Stir  up  the  camp  fires  bright, 
No  matter  if  the  canteen  fails, 

We  '11  make  a  roaring  night. 


Charles  Town,  West  Virginia         107 

Here  Shenandoah  brawls  along, 
There  lofty  Blue  Ridge  echoes  strong 
To  swell  the  brigade's  rousing  song 
Of  "Stonewall  Jackson's  Way." 


We  see  him  now — the  old  slouched  hat 

Cocked  o'er  his  eye  askew ; 
The  shrewd,  dry  smile,  the  speech  so  pat, 

So  calm,  so  blunt,  so  true. 
The  "Blue  Light  Elder"  knows  them  well; 
Says  he,  "That 's  Banks — he  's  fond  of  shell; 
Lord  save  his  soul;  we  '11  give  him —  "  well 

That 's  "Stonewall  Jackson's  Way." 

Silence!  ground  arms!  kneel  all!  caps  off! 

Old  Blue  Light's  going  to  pray; 
Strangle  the  fool  who  dares  to  scoff! 

Attention !  it 's  his  way ; 
Appealing  from  his  native  sod, 

In  forma  pauperis  to  God — 
Lay  bare  thine  arm,  stretch  forth  thy  rod; 

Amen!    That  's  "Stonewall  Jackson's  Way." 

He 's  in  the  saddle  now.     "Fall  in! 

Steady !  the  whole  brigade ! 
Hill 's  at  the  ford,  cut  off!     We  '11  win 

His  way  out  ball  and  blade. 
What  matter  if  our  shoes  are  worn? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn? 
Quick  step !  we  're  with  him  ere  the  morn. " 

That  's  "Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

The  sun's  bright  glances  rout  the  mists 

Of  morning — and,  by  George! 
There  's  Longstreet  struggling  in  the  lists, 

Hemmed  in  an  ugly  gorge. 


io8  My  Beloved  South 

Pope  and  his  columns  whipped  before, 
"Bay'nets  and  grape!"  hear  Stonewall  roar; 
"Charge  Stuart!  pay  off  Ashby's  score!" 
Is  "Stonewall  Jackson's  Way." 

Ah !  maiden,  wait  and  watch  and  yearn 

For  news  of  Stonewall 's  band; 
Ah !  widow,  read  with  eyes  that  burn 

That  ring  upon  thy  hand. 
Ah !  wife,  sew  on,  pray  on,  hope  on, 
Thy  life  shall  not  be  all  forlorn; 
The  foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born 

Than  get  in  "Stonewall's  Way." 

If  there  was  no  road  the  little  car  responded  to  the 
hand  of  Dr.  Venning  and  skimmed  over  bumps  and 
hollows  like  a  swallow.  Can  there  be,  in  all  the  world, 
more  beautiful  waters  than  the  Shenandoah?  The 
Indians  thought  the  origin  divine,  and  indeed  it  came 
by  its  name  through  an  almost  miraculous  happening. 

Late  in  his  life  a  girl  child  was  born  to  a  great  chief, 
and  she  grew  up  as  perfect  as  though  sculptured  by  a 
master  hand  in  bronze.  Her  head  and  throat  were 
nobly  fashioned,  and  her  round  limbs  were  super- 
humanly  agile.  Her  long,  black,  silky  hair  was  of 
great  thickness  and  extraordinary  length,  and  the 
scarlet  blood  of  an  open-air  existence  mantled  itself 
like  damask  roses  in  her  lips  and  cheeks.  She  was  not 
only  beautiful  but  accomplished,  for  she  could  send  an 
arrow  from  the  bow  to  rival  Diana,  and  there  was  never 
a  fisherman  so  wily  or  so  lucky  as  she.  The  name  of 
this  beautiful  goddess  was  Shenandoah,  and  the  tribe 
of  Indians  to  which  she  belonged  lived  near  a  crystal- 
clear,  low-singing,  swiftly-flowing  nameless  river.  It 
was  rich  in  many  varieties  of  fish,  but  especially  re- 


Charles  Town,  West  Virginia         109 

nowned  for  its  bass,  and  one  fish  was  bigger,  handsomer, 
and  more  crafty  than  all  the  rest.  He  was  frequently 
seen  apparently  trying  to  guide  a  reckless  youngster 
away  from  a  seductively  cruel  morsel.  If  he  ever  cast 
his  knowing  eye  in  the  direction  of  bait  it  was  only  to 
frown  and  to  warn. 

Shenandoah  respected  his  wisdom  but  was  ambitious 
to  catch  him.  She  had  been  fishing  for  many  days 
and  he  had  been  busy  keeping  guard.  In  a  fatigued 
moment  he  was  seen  in  a  deep  pool,  near  the  bottom 
of  the  river,  apparently  taking  a  nap,  for  his  watch- 
ful eyes  were  closed  and  he  lay  without  movement. 
Shenandoah,  as  noiseless  as  a  still  summer  day,  raised 
herself  to  her  full  height,  stretched  out  her  perfect 
arms  and  pointed  hands,  and  suddenly  cut  the  water 
like  an  unerring  knife.  When  she  rose  again  to  the 
surface,  it  was  with  the  struggling  fish  clasped  to  her 
bosom  with  muscles  of  steel,  but  she  could  not  land 
without  hands,  so  she  swam  down  to  a  depth  shallow 
enough  for  her  to  stand  upright.  Her  father,  returning 
from  his  day's  hunt,  found  her  on  the  bank  of  the  river 
with  the  big  fish  balanced  in  her  strong  arms  above 
her  sleek  head.  A  splash,  and  the  bass  slowly  swam 
out  to  mid-stream.  The  great  chief  asked  why 
she  had  set  free  her  longed-for  prize,  and  she  said  he 
looked  at  her  with  human  eyes  that  said,  "It  was 
not  fair  sport,  you  took  advantage  of  me  while  I 
slept.  You  are  no  Indian."  She  could  not  stand 
this  reproach  so  she  returned  him  to  the  waters.  But 
the  big  fish  was  never  seen  again.  Perhaps  he  died 
of  mortification  from  such  an  extraordinary  unfishlike 
experience. 

The  next  day  there  was  a  great  gathering  to  cele- 
brate her  prowess,  and  with  impressive  ceremony  the 


no  My  Beloved  South 

river  was  named  after  the  beautiful  woodswoman, 
"Shenandoah." 

The  clear  water  comes  rushing  through  from  the 
heart  of  the  mountain  bringing  with  it  cool  and  refresh- 
ing air,  as  it  winds  along  the  side  of  the  Blue  Ridge. 
Its  loftiest  crags  are  where  the  eagle  builds  its  nest, 
and  at  evening  the  hunter  sees  the  wild  deer  drinking 
from  its  swift  water,  while  miniature  fountains  and 
wreaths  of  crystal  are  sent  high  up  in  the  ambient  air 
by  great  rocks  that  bar  its  swift  progress.  The  Shen- 
andoah has  had  many  illustrious  lovers — Washington, 
and  Jackson,  and  Jefferson,  all  appreciated  its  beauties, 
and  every  Virginian  loves  it  and  the  legend  connected 
with  it. 

After  my  week  in  Charles  Town  I  was  able  to  travel, 
and,  on  my  way  to  South  Carolina,  stayed  some  days 
in  Washington,  that  fair  city  which  even  in  winter  has 
the  appearance  of  spring,  with  its  endless  avenues  of 
trees,  many  of  them  evergreen,  and  numerous  grassy 
squares  of  late  blooming  flowers.  In  spring  and  summer, 
with  every  shrub  in  leaf  and  every  flower  in  blossom 
and  the  streets  a  sea  of  unbroken  green,  it  is  like  a 
great  emerald.  Governor  Shepherd's  plans  have  been 
carried  out — broad  avenues,  fine  streets,  all  the  old 
trees  saved  and  rows  of  new  ones  planted.  When 
finished  it  will  be  one  of  the  most  beautiful  cities  in 
the  world  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  it  will  always  keep 
its  independent  character,  southern  atmosphere  and 
individual  habits  and  customs. 

In  the  summer  there  is  no  prettier  sight  in  the 
evenings  than  an  open  street-car  going  Chevy  Chase 
way,  looking  as  if  it  had  suddenly  broken  into  blossom, 
with  its  freight  of  hatless  women  and  girls,  clothed  in 
fresh  diaphanous  white.  And  on  the  warmest  days 


Beautiful  Washington  HI 

it  is  quite  ordinary  to  meet  ladies  going  to  market  or 
shopping  with  a  pretty  parasol  for  a  head  covering, 
instead  of  a  hat.  The  market  in  Washington  used  to 
be  quite  a  rendezvous  in  the  morning.  The  men  of 
the  family,  if  they  take  an  interest  in  the  cuisine,  often 
go  to  select  some  particularly  toothsome  delicacy, 
and  whenever  a  man  takes  an  interest  in  the  table  there 
is  sure  to  be  good  cooking.  Even  a  poet  assures  us,  that 

Man  may  live  without  hope — what  is  hope  but  deceiving, 
He  may  live  without  love — what  is  passion  but  pining, 
But  where  is  the  man  that  can  live  without  dining  ?" 

Cooks  somehow  are  always  more  flattered  by  the 
praise  of  a  man  than  that  of  a  woman  and  men  will 
not  put  up  with  bad  cooking,  also,  they  have  the  ad- 
vantage of  being  permitted  to  swear.  I  have  often 
thought  a  Swearer  in  a  woman's  club,  who  could  be 
called  upon  to  express  what  a  woman  feels  but  dare  not 
say  when  a  dreadful  dish  is  put  before  her,  would  be 
most  useful.  For  the  office  he  would  require  a  stento- 
rian voice,  a  fluent  vocabulary,  and  prompt,  efficient 
action. 

One  of  my  red-letter  days  in  Washington,  I  met  Mrs. 
Champ  Clark  at  the  Burlesons.  She  is,  as  all  the  world 
knows,  the  wife  of  the  Speaker  of  the  House.  But 
with  her  strong  personality,  she  is  so  much  more  than 
that.  It  is  difficult  to  describe  a  woman  different  from 
all  other  women,  and  more  difficult  still  to  get  a  right 
perspective  if  she  has  taken  by  storm  your  heart,  your 
intelligence,  and  your  sense  of  humour.  Mrs.  Clark 
herself  does  n't  look  in  the  least  humorous.  On  the 
contrary,  with  her  very  slim,  erect,  graceful  figure,  her 
white  face  and  burning  dark  eyes,  she  appears  more 
like  a  tragic  muse,  for  the  sorrow  of  the  world  weighs 


ii2  My  Beloved  South 

upon  her.  I  wonder  whether  happiness  would  not  be 
quite  impossible  for  a  sensitive  human  being — if,  with 
a  heart  to  feel  and  a  keen  realisation  of  the  cruel  wrongs 
and  incurable  miseries  of  humanity,  every  personal 
wish  could  be  gratified? 

This  distinguished  lady  says  of  herself:  "I  was  the 
youngest  of  seven  children  and  they  all  waited  on  me, 
and  petted  me.  I  had  the  happiest  sort  of  childhood 
and  then  I  married  Champ,  and  all  the  world  knows 
what  a  husband  he  is — perfect,  as  they  go.  And  my 
children  are  satisfactory;  both  of  them  have  brought 
themselves  up  well.  So  what  have  I  to  cast  me  down 
and  darken  my  spirit?  The  golden  rule  of  'Do  as  you 
would  be  done  by,'  and  'Love  thy  neighbour  as  thy- 
self, ' — if  I  had  my  life  to  live  over  again  how  I  would 
flout  and  trample  those  mistaken  rules!  Now  I  Ve 
formed  a  habit  of  caring  for  others  and  it 's  too  late. 
I  Ve  always  got  the  poor,  the  unfortunate,  and  the 
failures  on  my  back.  I  Ve  always  got  a  Civil  Service 
list  of  women  waiting  to  get  into  office  through  my 
persuasive  influence,  and  I  Ve  always  girls  on  hand  to 
recommend  for  all  kinds  of  occupations ;  I  may  hesitate 
to  ask  for  something  for  a  woman,  but  I  can  refuse  a 
girl  nothing.  You  see  my  Genevieve  is  a  girl,  a  tender 
sensitive  girl.  Suppose  she  wanted  work,  so  sweet 
and  modest  and  pretty  and  old-fashioned  as  she  is, 
she  could  n't  get  it  for  herself,  and  if  somebody  refused 
to  help  her?  Sometimes  I  do  get  physically,  mortally 
tired.  Then  I  say  'Genevieve,'  just  a  whisper  of  her 
name,  and  I  go  on  and  do  what  I  can.  I  Ve  a  sort  of 
feeling  that  what  I  do  for  the  poor  and  the  needy  will 
in  some  way  come  back  to  my  child.  It 's  her  heritage 
from  me." 

What  a  touching  legacy,  the  love  of  a  mother  who 


Beautiful  Washington  113 

lifts  up  the  weak-hearted,  comforts  the  afflicted,  and 
succours  struggling  womankind,  for  the  sake  of  her 
daughter!  Surely  the  beautiful  inheritance  of  sweet 
Genevieve  will  not  end  here,  but  continue  where 
"neither  moth  nor  rust  doth  corrupt  and  where  thieves 
do  not  break  through  nor  steal." 

I  said,  "Take  care  not  to  overdo  your  good  work, 
you  are  none  too  strong;  and  think  of  all  your  duties 
for  the  coming  winter."  (The  Speaker  of  the  House  of 
Representatives  has  really  as  much  power  as  the 
President,  and  his  wife  is  an  overwhelmingly  busy 
woman.) 

"I  know,"  she  said,  "I  know;  and  if  I  can  just  get 
two  women  that  I  have  on  my  hands  now  into  one  of 
the  government  departments  I  'm  going  to  give  myself 
a  rest." 

"  No,  you  won't,"  said  Adele  Burleson,  Mrs.  Clark's 
great  friend,  and  one  of  the  wisest  and  cleverest  little 
women  in  Washington.  "You'll  have  somebody  else 
on  hand." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Clark.  "If  I  can  only  land  these 
two  I  won't  bother  anybody  for  a  long  time.  Mr. 
Burleson,  why  don't  you  help  me?" 

Albert  said,  "I  Ve  done  all  I  can,  neither  of  the  women 
is  qualified  for  the  Civil  Service.  You  know  that." 

" Qualified!"  said  Mrs.  Clark  scornfully.  " They  've 
got  to  live,  and  I  believe  sometimes  they  are  hungry. 
Oh,  it 's  weary  work,  I  tell  you.  Champ's  secretary 
has  written  letters  for  me,  and  I  've  made  that  nice 
secretary  of  yours,  Ruskin  McArdle,  who  does  all  the 
things  you  ought  to  do  and  don't  do,  write  in  your 
behalf,  and  I  get  nothing  done!" 

"Has  Ruskin  been  writing  in  my  name?"  asked 
Albert. 


ii4  My  Beloved  South 

"He  has,"  said  Mrs.  Clark,  "a  beautiful  letter  in 
which  he  spoke  of  the  service  of  the  lady's  father  to 
his  country." 

"No,"  said  Albert,  "I  wrote  that  letter." 

"Then,"  said  Mrs.  Clark,  "what 's  the  use  of  being 
the  prominent  member  from  Texas  if  your  letters  have 
no  effect?" 

Albert  said,  "How  long  have  you  had  this  lady  on 
your  hands?" 

"Long  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Clark,  "nearly  to  give 
me  nervous  prostration.  You  and  Champ  must  storm 
the  departments.  I  must  get  her  something  to  do; 
I  tell  you  I  must.  I  '11  introduce  her  to  you." 

"No,"  said  Albert,  "not  for  anything  in  the  world." 

Mrs.  Clark  replied,  "I  've  introduced  her  to  Ruskin; 
he  thinks  she  's  a  dear  woman." 

Adele  remarked,  "If  Albert  knew  her,  he's  easily 
touched, — she  would  have  him  working  as  hard  for  her 
as  you  do." 

"Then,"  said  Mrs.  Clark,  "some  day  I  '11  surprise 
him  with  an  introduction." 

Long  ago  it  would  have  been  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world  for  a  woman  of  influence  and  importance  to 
place  a  clerk  in  Washington.  A  word  would  have  done 
it,  but  that  time  has  passed  and  now,  as  in  England, 
everything  must  go  by  routine. 

Adele  and  I  were  lunching  at  the  Capitol  with  Mrs. 
Clark  and  I  overheard  her  say  in  the  Speaker's  Gallery : 
"Now  why  did  you  order  such  an  elaborate  menu?" 

"She's  English,"  said  Mrs.  Clark,  speaking  of  me; 
"I  wasn't  going  to  have  her  think  we  came  from  the 
creek." 

I  leaned  over  and  said,  "I  don't  know  where  you 
came  from,  but  I  really  did  come  from  the  creek, — 


Beautiful  Washington  115 

Waller's  Creek  in  Texas.  Not  a  very  big  creek,  and 
not  always  a  wet  creek,  but  that  is  where  I  came  from. 
Adele,  now,  is  more  aristocratic;  she  came  from  Onion 
Creek, — there  's  always  water  there." 

Mrs.  Clark  called  me  up  on  the  telephone  one  morn- 
ing to  ask  if  I  had  ever  read  Henry  James'  The  Liars, 
and,  abbreviating  the  story,  she  told  it  to  me  in  Henry 
James' sown  language;  all  his  expressions,  all  his  subtle- 
ties, all  his  exquisiteness  came  fluently  through  the 
telephone,  an  instrument  which  he  resents  and  abomi- 
nates. I  laughed  so  constantly  I  could  scarcely  hold 
the  receiver.  Mrs.  Clark  is  an  omnivorous  reader  and, 
what  one  rarely  finds,  a  truly  enthusiastic  one.  She  is 
an  ardent  admirer  of  the  genius  of  Thomas  Hardy. 
"Oh,"  she  said,  "when  I  was  in  England,  how  I  did 
enjoy  meeting  him!  I  said  to  him,  'Mr.  Hardy,  you 
have  made  me  feel  everything  that  your  heroines  felt. 
I  've  even  felt  everything  that  your  villains  felt !  I  Ve 
loved  and  suffered  and  sinned  with  everyone  of  your 
creations.  I  've  gone  to  the  scaffold  with  Tess,  and 
I  've  died  with  Elfrida.  You  have  given  me  the 
gamut  of  all  the  emotions.'  We  talked  for  hours,  I 
could  scarcely  bring  myself  to  leave  him." 

And  I  can  imagine  how  this  fresh,  original,  great- 
hearted, unspoiled,  frank,  natural  woman,  must  have 
impressed  Thomas  Hardy.  What  an  appetising  morsel 
she  would  be  for  jaded  London  society.  In  the  express- 
ive vernacular  of  the  stage,  "They  would  eat  her." 

Champ  Clark,  brilliant  and  witty,  has  a  way  of 
making  unforgettable  phrases.  I  asked  him  why  a 
certain  very  talented  member  of  Congress  had  no 
following.  "Well,"  said  he,  "his  opinion  and  his 
morals  are  in  a  fluid  condition.  You  can't  take  hold 
of  him  any  more  than  you  can  of  water." 


n6  My  Beloved  South 

"That  not  only  describes  him,"  I  said,  "but  a  few 
other  politicians  of  my  acquaintance." 

My  days  in  Washington  were  all  too  short.  I  wanted 
the  sunshine  of  the  South,  and  yet  the  idea  of  going 
alone  was  distinctly  depressing.  One  evening  Mary 
Clark — I  was  staying  with  her — came  into  my  room 
and  said,  "Bessiekins,  I  am  going  to  let  Bee  go  with 
you  to  Charleston  if  you  really  want  her."  If  I  wanted 
Bee — who  is  such  a  comfort,  so  companionable,  and 
unselfish.  I  breathed  a  great  sigh  of  relief,  and  at 
once  gave  myself  into  her  capable  hands.  She  intended 
to  get  a  new  kodak,  and  to  finish  some  shelves  in  the 
pantry  before  we  started.  "And,"  she  said,  "you 
want  to  see  Mr.  Page  before  you  go,  about  your  Beloved 
South,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  do." 

"Then,"  she  replied,  "we  can  leave  on  Thursday 
evening,  unless  you  don't  mind  Friday." 

"Friday,"  I  said,  "has  no  terrors  for  me;  Monday  is 
my  'black  Friday.'  I  was  born  on  that  day." 

"All  right,"  said  Bee,  who  has  no  superstitions, 
"we  will  start  on  Friday  night." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   SYMBOL   OF   THE    SOUTH 

Then — in  that  day — we  shall  not  meet 
Wrong  with  new  wrong,  but  right  with  right: 

Our  faith  shall  make  your  faith  complete 
When  our  battalions  reunite. 

THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE  has  served  his  country 
well.  He  built  at  a  propitious  moment  a  bridge 
between  the  North  and  the  South.  The  first  great 
arch  was  laid  with  those  touching  pages  of  realism, 
Marse  Chan.'  At  that  time  a  gulf,  not  of  bitterness, 
but  of  coldness  and  indifference,  separated  us.  He 
spanned  it  with  stories  of  the  Old  South,  so  true  to  life, 
so  gracious,  so  full  of  tenderness  that  the  hearts  of  the 
North  understood — and  warmed  toward  us.  We  were 
grateful  for  their  appreciation, — and  the  bridge  was 
builded.  When  I  read  Marse  Chan1  to  Henry  Ward 
Beecher,  he  said,  "I  should  regret  the  War  less  if 
Marse  Chan1  had  been  spared;  Page  must  be  a  first- 
rate  fellow  to  have  written  that  story." 

He  is  more  than  "a  first-rate  fellow" — he  is  a  high- 
minded  gentleman,  and  a  staunch  American.  How 
patriotically  he  expresses  his  enthusiasm: 

I  have  journeyed  the  spacious  world  over 
And  here  to  thy  sapphire  wide  gate, 

America,  I,  thy  True  Lover 
Return  now,  exalted,  elate, 

As  an  heir  who  returns  to  recover 
His  forefathers'  lofty  estate. 
117 


n8  My  Beloved  South 

How  crude  then  and  rude  then  soever 
Thy  struggles  to  lift  from  the  sod, 

Thy  Freedom  is  strong  to  dissever 
The  Shackles,  the  Yoke,  and  the  Rod : 

Thy  Freedom  is  Mighty  forever, 
For  men  who  kneel  only  to  God. 

Even  our  ambassadors  do  not  bend  the  knee  to 
kings  and  princes,  they  only  bend  the  back.  I  should 
like  Mr.  Page  to  represent  our  country  at  some  Euro- 
pean court.  My  prophetic  vision  sees  him  the  most 
popular  ambassador  since  the  time  of  Mr.  Lowell, 
when  he  gathered  around  him  a  coterie  of  brilliant 
literary  men  and  inspired  Henry  James  to  carve  deli- 
cately one  of  his  most  exquisite  literary  cameos.  Mr. 
Page  is  richer  than  Mr.  Lowell,  who  was  a  widower,  in 
having  the  able  assistance  of  his  wife.  Mrs.  Page  is  a 
charming  lady  and  an  ideal  hostess,  with  the  easy  hospi- 
tality of  a  woman  born  to  the  purple.  He  himself  has 
the  gracious  manner  of  a  citizen  of  the  world,  but  it 
never  conceals  his  real  tenderness  of  heart  and  he  is  the 
most  loyal,  disinterested,  and  encouraging  of  friends. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "the  binding  of  My  Beloved  South 
had  better  be  dark  blue,  with  a  spray  of  jessamine  on 
the  cover." 

"No,  I  am  not  going  to  have  yellow  jessamine,"  I 
said,  "much  as  I  love  it,  but  something  more  character- 
istic of  all  of  that  devoted  land,  something  to  express 
the  life  of  the  South  from  Virginia  to  the  Gulf,  from 
Texas  to  the  Pacific." 

"That 's  ambitious,"  asked  Tom  Page,  "what  is  it 
to  be?" 

"A  palm  leaf  fan,"  I  answered. 

"It  is  n't  a  bad  idea,"  he  said,  "even  in  the  War  they 
had  palm  leaf  fans." 


The  Palm  Leaf  Fan  119 

For  myself  I  have  never  been  without  one.  Very 
likely  mine  is  the  only  one  in  London.  It  is  kept  in  a 
special  drawer,  and  often  in  the  cold,  dark,  sleepless 
nights,  as  the  raw,  grey  dawn  penetrates  my  room,  I 
will  get  out  of  bed,  take  from  its  place  my  old  palm 
leaf  fan  and  lay  my  tired  head  upon  its  uneven  surface. 
It  seems  to  give  me  a  moment's  comfort  when  nothing 
else  can,  for  it  speaks  of  sunshine,  of  the  magnolia,  of 
the  banjo,  that  oldest  of  musical  instruments,  born  in 
the  Ark  and  listened  to  by  Noah : 

De  Ark  she  kep'  a-sailin'  an'  a-sailin'  an'  a-sailin' ; 

De  lion  got  his  dander  up,  an'  like  to  bruk  de  palin' ; 
De  sarpints  hissed ;  de  painters  yelled ;  till,  what  wid  all  de 
fussin' 

You  c'u'd  n't  hear  de  mate  a-bossin'  roun'  an'  cussin.' 

Now,  Ham,  de  only  nigger  what  wuz  runnin'  on  de  packet, 
Got  lonesome  in  de  barber-shop  an'  c'u'd  n't  stan'  de 

racket ; 
An'  so,  fur  to  amuse  he-se'f,  he  steamed  some  wood  an' 

bent  it, 
An'  soon  he  had  a  banjo  made,  de  fust  dat  wuz  invented. 

He  wet  de  ledder,  stretched  it  on;  made  bridges,  screws 

an'  aprin; 

An'  fitted  in  a  proper  neck,  'twas  berry  long  an'  taperin' ; 
He  tuk  some  tin,  an'  twisted  him  a  thimble  fur  to  ring  it; 
An'  den  de  mighty  question  riz,  how  wuz  he  gwine  to 
string  it? 

De  possum  has  as  fine  a  tail  as  dis  dat  I 's  a  singin' ; 
De  ha'r  's  so  long  an'  thick  an'  strong,  des  fit  fur  banjo 

stringin', 
Dat  nigger  shaved  'em  off  as  short  as  wash-day  dinner 

graces ; 
An'  sorted  ob  dem  by  dc  size,  f'om  little  E's  to  basses. 


120  My  Beloved  South 

He  strung  her,  tuned  her,  struck  a  jig,  't  was  '  Nebber 

min'  de  wedder, ' 

She  soun'  like  forty-lebben  bands  a-playin'  all  togeder; 
Some  went  to  pattin',  some  to  dancin',  Noah  called  de 

figgers 

An'  Ham  he  sot  and  knocked  de  tune,  de  happiest  ob  de 
niggers. 

Now,  sence  dat  time,  it 's  mighty  strange,  dere  's  not  de 

slightest  showin', 

Ob  any  h'ar  at  all  upon  de  'possum's  tail  a-growin' ; 
An  curi's  too,  dat  nigger's  ways;  his  people  nebber'  los* 

em', 

Fur  whar  you  find  de  nigger,  dar's  de  banjo  an'  de 
possum. 

My  old  fan  dissipates  the  London  fog,  and  conjures 
a  picture  of  Aunt  Polly  Hynes  and  Aunt  Lizzie,  rocking 
slowly  in  their  light  cane  chairs  and  fanning  themselves 
on  the  long  gallery  that  ran  across  the  entire  length  of 
my  old  home  in  Texas.  My  mother  sat  there,  too, 
with  her  fan,  which  was  of  a  more  sublimated  pattern 
than  the  others,  for  it  was  made  of  a  young,  tender  leaf, 
finely  sewn  at  the  edge,  and  mounted  on  an  ivory 
handle  with  a  tiny  hole  at  the  bottom  through  which  a 
green  silk  tassel  was  looped,  and  where  the  ivory  joined 
the  leaf  it  was  finished  by  a  little  carved  rosette  of 
mother-of-pearl.  But  I  love  just  the  ordinary  palm 
leaf  fan  that  is  bought  for  a  picayune.  Its  office  has 
often  been  beyond  rubies  and  pearls,  in  saving  the 
sick,  comforting  the  dying,  and  making  life  bearable 
on  the  hottest  days  to  the  living.  On  every  gallery 
when  summer  comes  numbers  of  these  fans  appear. 
In  all  the  churches  they  are  slipped  in  between  the 
cushion  and  the  pew,  and  they  can  even  be  found  in  the 
dear  old  musty  Court  Houses  throughout  the  South. 


The  Palm  Leaf  Fan  121 

On  one  occasion  they  not  only  cooled  the  air  but 
were  more  intimidating  than  a  regiment  of  soldiers  to 
a  renowned  prelate.  An  English  bishop,  a  tall,  erect, 
downright  man,  called  "the  Soldiers'  Bishop"  on 
account  of  his  influence  with  the  soldier-man,  came  to 
America  to  deliver  a  series  of  sermons  throughout  the 
South.  While  in  New  Orleans  the  weather  turned 
suddenly  hot,  and  when  he  ascended  the  pulpit,  what 
was  his  consternation  to  find  a  vast  sea  of  movement 
all  over  the  church.  Every  woman,  young  and  old, 
wafted  a  palm-leaf  fan.  The  grandmothers  were 
making  a  soft  sideways  movement,  the  girls,  rebellious 
at  the  sudden  rise  in  temperature,  were  waving  their 
fans  back  and  forth  vigorously,  while  some  very  old 
ladies  made  almost  a  pause  between  their  movements, 
and  there  was  no  spot  of  repose  to  be  found  for  his 
bewildered  eyes.  The  Soldier  Bishop  said  that  for  a 
moment  he  was  dreadfully  perturbed,  felt  frightened 
and,  indeed,  rather  sea-sick.  He  even  ingloriously 
contemplated  retreating  from  the  pulpit,  leaving  the 
fans  victorious  on  the  field  of  battle.  Then  he  stood 
quite  still,  shut  his  eyes,  offered  up  a  stout  prayer  for 
endurance,  and  got  creditably  through  his  sermon. 
A  Southern  clergyman,  brought  up  from  infancy  to 
the  fan  habit,  would  probably  not  even  have  noticed 
this  undulating  sea  of  creamy  waves. 

Every  Southern  woman  must  carry  some  memory 
in  her  heart  connected  with  this  dried,  brittle,  but 
blessed  and  grateful  leaf.  Girls  of  sixteen  have  used 
it,  young  mothers  have  fanned  their  first  babies  with 
it,  grandmothers  sitting  on  moonlit  porches  have 
brought  back  the  memories  of  a  lifetime  with  its  slowly 
waving  motion.  Even  the  gravest  and  most  dignified 
governors  and  judges  have  been  driven  to  its  help  in 


122  My  Beloved  South 

torrid  weather.  There  is,  indeed,  no  nook  or  corner 
in  the  South  where  at  one  time  or  another,  it  has  not 
been  an  almost  vital  necessity. 

At  one  time  in  Texas  we  had — an  unusual  thing  for 
us — a  spell  of  terribly,  unceasingly  hot  weather.  The 
sun  s,mk  to  rest  a  brazen  shield,  leaving  the  earth 
baked  and  cracked  like  a  pie  crust;  it  rose  the  next 
morning  a  blazing  eye  of  unrelenting  fire,  and  continued 
unblinking  throughout  the  long  day.  Old  people  died 
from  exhaustion,  middle-aged  people  suffered,  young 
people  were  excitable  and  impatient,  and  the  poor 
little  children  were  simply  scorched  out  of  existence  by 
this  dreadful  tropical  weather. 

The  first  little  baby  of  a  young  cousin  of  mine  who 
lived  on  the  adjoining  place,  was  taken  suddenly  very 
ill.  The  doctor  was  almost  hopeless  about  the  child's 
recovery,  and  said  it  depended  on  a  change  in  the 
weather.  For  a  fortnight  we  had  gone  on  merely 
existing  under  this  cruelly  devastating  sun.  What  was 
to  be  done?  The  young  mother,  pale  and  wan  from 
the  heat,  was  in  despair,  but  the  negro  foster-mother, 
a  strong,  vigorous  young  woman,  said,  "Ef  dat  's  all 
de  trouble;  ef  it 's  coolness  dat 's  wanted  I  'se  gwine 
to  save  dis  chile."  And  giving  orders  to  a  little  darkey 
in  the  room,  she  said,  "Bring  me  a  bucket  of  cold 
water,  and  drap  it  deep  in  de  well."  And  into  the  fresh 
water  she  dipped  a  wide  palm-leaf  fan,  and  began 
slowly,  evenly,  and  continually,  to  make  a  cool  moist 
breeze  from  the  baby's  hot  head  to  his  little  restless 
feet. 

Except  to  nurse  him  she  never  stopped  the  flail-like 
movement  for  thirty-six  hours.  The  fan  was  dipped 
again  and  again  into  the  water,  and  on  and  on  it  went 
in  its  regularity  of  movement,  keeping  down  the  fever, 


The  Palm  Leaf  Fan  123 

and  letting  the  child  get  an  occasional  hour  or  two  of 
sleep. 

Late  in  the  evening  of  the  second  day  came  a  merci- 
ful thunder  storm.  The  heavens  were  riven  with 
lightning  and  peals  of  thunder  sounded  like  heavy 
artillery.  The  sky  opened  and  let  down,  not  rain, 
but  great  waterfalls  of  cooling  water.  The  outsides 
of  the  houses  were  washed  clean.  The  cracks  of  the 
baked  earth  were  filled  with  the  blessed  fluid.  The 
creeks  began  to  murmur,  and  in  a  few  hours  the  dry 
beds  of  stream  became  roaring  torrents.  The  air 
rapidly  cooled,  and  the  baby  was  out  of  danger,  but 
when  his  black  mammy  dropped  the  fan  her  arm  was 
the  size  of  a  human  leg;  the  muscles  stood  out  swollen 
and  rigid,  and  her  hand  was  almost  paralysed.  The 
doctor  found  the  young  mother  smoothing  the  big 
swollen  hand,  and  crying  like  a  baby.  The  crisis  was 
passed;  for  the  first  time  in  weeks  the  child  had  taken 
notice  of  things  about  it,  and  was  actually  hungry. 

"Well,  Jemima,"  said  the  doctor,  picking  up  the 
fan,  "the  youngster  owes  his  life  entirely  to  you  and  to 
this." 

"Why,  laws  a  mercy,  doctor,"  said  Jemima,  with  a 
shaky  laugh,  "you  did  n't  spose  I  was  gwine  to  let  my 
chile  die  when  one  ob  dese  here  five-cent  fans  could 
save  him,  did  you?  Course  I  wouldn't,  but  my  arm 
feels  mighty  funny.  I  'spect  it  will  all  pass  away, 
though."  And  it  did.  In  a  few  days  Jemima's 
strong  arm  was  normal  again,  and  to-day  that  palm 
leaf  fan  baby  is  a  flourishing  and  brilliant  young  lawyer. 
Now,  of  course,  science  has  arranged  the  electric  fan 
to  be  worked  by  machinery,  but  in  those  days  cool  air 
came  from  love  and  service  and  splendid  muscular 
strength. 


124  My  Beloved  South 

And  one  solitary  fan  at  least  figured  on  the  field  of 
Gettysburg.  Mrs.  Pickett,  in  her  touching  tribute  to 
My  Soldier,  says: 

Five  thousand  Virginians  followed  him  at  the  start ;  but 
when  the  Southern  flag  floated  on  the  ridge,  in  less  than 
half  an  hour  not  two  thousand  were  left  to  rally  beneath  it, 
and  these  for  only  one  glorious,  victory -intoxicated  moment. 
They  were  not  strong  enough  to  hold  the  position  they  had 
so  dearly  won;  and  broken-hearted  even  at  the  very  mo- 
ment of  his  immortal  triumph,  my  soldier  led  his  remaining 
men  down  the  slope  again.  He  dismounted  and  walked 
beside  the  stretcher  upon  which  General  Kemper,  one  of 
his  officers,  was  being  carried,  fanning  him  and  speaking 
cheerfully  to  comfort  him  in  his  suffering.  When  he  reached 
Seminary  Ridge  again  and  reported  to  General  Lee,  his 
face  was  wet  with  tears  as  he  pointed  to  the  crimson  valley 
and  said :  "  My  noble  division  lies  there ! " 

" General  Pickett, "  said  the  Commander,  "you  and  your 
men  have  covered  yourselves  with  glory." 

Another  tender  memory  of  mine  of  the  palm-leaf 
fan  is  one  connected  with  a  girl  who  came  to  New  York 
from  South  Carolina  to  seek  her  fortune.  She  was  not 
pretty  but  she  had  a  wonderful  figure,  as  slender  as  a 
reed,  a  little  round  kittenish  face  with  grey  eyes,  a 
snub  nose,  a  line  of  freckles  across  it,  beautiful  white 
teeth,  a  low  forehead,  a  quantity  of  dark  hair,  and  she 
possessed  to  an  unusual  degree  that  intangible  thing 
called  charm,  and  a  rare  talent  for  music.  Her  voice, 
a  warm  soprano,  had  something  in  it  of  appeal,  a  thrill 
of  passion  and  an  insistence  that  went  straight  to  your 
heart.  The  first  manager  she  saw  in  New  York  was 
Mr.  Daly,  who  gave  her  a  very  small  part  in  a  comedy, 
and  one  verse  of  a  little  song  to  sing.  She  made  a 
favourable  impression,  for  she  had  individuality  and  a 


The  Palm  Leaf  Fan  125 

great  desire  to  please,  combined  with  a  vivid  joy  of 
life.  Her  criticisms  were  encouraging  and  plenty  of 
bouquets,  boxes  of  candy,  and  admiring  notes  found 
their  way  round  to  the  back  of  the  stage.  She  was  of 
a  gregarious  nature,  loving  not  only  her  kind,  but  light, 
laughter,  music,  gaiety  and  amusement.  She  soon 
knew  a  crowd  of  artists,  journalists,  actors  and  young 
men  about  town,  was  immensely  popular,  always  going 
about,  and  her  more  serious  friends  were  greatly 
troubled  about  her,  but  she  was  so  radiant  with  all  her 
new  emotions  and  experiences  that  she  paid  no  heed 
to  anything  but  enjoyment. 

After  a  year  on  the  stage  she  married.  It  was  a  love 
match.  The  man  was  a  well-built,  straight-limbed, 
regular-featured,  soft-voiced,  dark-haired,  human  tiger. 
I  never  saw  a  more  repellent  expression  in  any  face. 
Nancy,  however,  was  desperately  in  love  with  him. 
She  did  n't  mind  his  being  poor  and  they  went  to  live 
in  a  small  flat  with  such  steep  stairs  that  to  get  to  it 
was  really  like  climbing  a  fire-escape.  The  first  time 
I  went  to  see  her  in  her  spotlessly  clean,  daintily  fur- 
nished little  apartment,  she  said  to  me,  "I  think  I  am 
the  happiest  woman  in  the  world.  When  Norman  goes 
down  town  I  love  him  so  much  that  I  take  one  of  his 
old  coats  out  of  his  dressing-room,  and  lay  my  head  on 
the  shoulder  and  kiss  the  sleeve,  just  because  he  has 
worn  it.  And,  oh,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  him  when  he 
comes  home  from  the  office.  It  is  just  as  if  we  had 
been  separated  for  a  week." 

After  the  honeymoon  was  over  Norman  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  Nancy  was  a  woman  with  a  past,  and 
he  became  inordinately  jealous  and  very  abusive.  She 
was  patient  and  hopeful  at  first  of  giving  him  confidence, 
but  his  nature  was  mean,  petty,  and  suspicious,  com- 


126  My  Beloved  South 

bined  with  an  utter  lack  of  generosity,  and  the  brutal- 
ity of  a  wild  beast  waiting  to  spring  upon  his  prey. 
Nancy's  mother  sent  her  an  old-fashioned  diamond 
ring.  It  arrived  one  morning  when  this  heartless 
monster  was  at  his  office.  When  he  returned  home 
she  showed  it  to  him  and  he  said,  "A  lover  has  given 
it  to  you." 

She  said,  "  My  mother  sent  it  to  me  from  Charleston." 
He  answered  by  saying,  "You  lie,"  sprang  at  her, 
choked  her,  knocked  her  down,  and  kicked  her  until 
she  was  bruised  from  shoulder  to  ankle.  He  had  been 
the  winner  of  more  than  one  Marathon  race,  and  his 
kick  was  no  mean  thing. 

When  I  answered  her  telegram  to  come  to  her,  she 
was  in  a  high  fever  and  very  ill.  I  never  saw  a  more 
appalling  sight  than  her  black,  swollen,  and  almost 
broken  limbs.  Even  then  she  forgave  him  his  murder- 
ous attack,  but,  of  course,  their  separation  was  only  a 
question  of  time,  and  when  it  did  come,  he  left  her 
bereft  of  all  that  an  unprotected  woman  needs.  She 
had  lost  faith  in  everything,  even  in  herself.  She 
could  not  live  with  him,  she  could  not  forget  him,  and 
the  pain  she  suffered  made  her  utterly  reckless. 

In  the  beginning  she  went  back  to  the  stage  as  a 
chorus  girl  in  a  musical  comedy.  Then  she  got  ill, 
and  later  she  became  an  artist's  model.  I  urged  her 
to  go  South  and  put  aside  the  feverish  life  she  lived. 
I  said,  "There  must  be  so  many  things  to  offend  you, 
for,  after  all,  you  are  born  and  bred  a  lady.  Musical 
comedy  people  are  not  of  your  class,  and  for  you  the 
life  of  an  artist's  model  must  be  the  saddest  thing  on 
earth.  Do  give  it  all  up  and  go  back  to  the  country 
where  you  belong  and  teach  music.  You  are  quite 
capable  of  doing  it;  you  are  so  sweet  and  charming 


The  Palm  Leaf  Fan  127 

and  so  young.  Life  must  hold  happiness  in  store  for 
you  yet." 

But  she  said,  "No,  it  is  too  late,  I  must  have  excite- 
ment, I  am  not  like  a  widow  who  can  live  on  memory. 
It  is  not  the  quiet  dead  who  kill  us  with  grief.  It  is 
the  terrible  living  dead,  who  must  be  forgotten  and 
never  thought  of  a  single  moment  in  the  day  or  in  the 
night,  for  that  way  madness  lies.  Oh,  these  living 
dead,  to  what  desperate  straits  they  drive  us!  If  I 
could  always  have  your  steady  hand,  as  now,  on  my 
wrist,  I  could  begin  life  all  over  again,  but  you  are 
busy.  You  must  work.  Let  me  go,  dear,  and  only 
love  me.  I  don't  say  that  I  will  do  anything  wrong, 
but  I  must  have  forgetfulness  at  any  cost.  I  must  have 
it!  Do  you  remember  the  bruises,  and  how  I  loved 
my  husband?  Well,  the  ache  is  still  there.  I  don't 
mean  only  the  hurt  of  the  spirit,  that  never  leaves  me; 
but  the  hurt  of  the  flesh.  I  so  often  have  a  pain  in  my 
side  that  I  think  he  must  have  given  me  a  vital  blow." 

And  yet  she  looked  well  and  was  apparently  always 
gay  and  cheerful.  Eventually  she  went  back  to  Comedy, 
won  some  success,  and  remained  on  the  stage.  She 
was  the  most  generous  creature  I  ever  knew.  Once, 
when  she  had  only  two  pairs  of  shoes,  she  gave  one  pair 
to  a  girl  in  the  chorus  poorer  than  herself.  And  for 
weeks  during  the  hottest  weather  in  New  York  when 
she  could  have  gone  to  the  country,  she  stayed  on  and 
sewed  day  and  night  to  make  a  pretty  layette  for  a 
poor  unwedded  mother.  She  never  had  a  baby  of  her 
own,  but  she  loved  children  with  a  real  mother's  un- 
selfish instinct.  And  she  sold  a  rich  gold  chain,  her 
last  remaining  heirloom,  and  gave  the  money  for  a 
course  of  treatment  to  a  young  actress,  threatened  with 
blindness.  That  warm  heart  of  hers  was  always  full 


128  My  Beloved  South 

of  sympathy  and  kindliness  and  help  for  human  suffer- 
ing. Her  troubles  were  powerless  to  embitter  her, 
and  I  never  heard  her  make  a  complaint. 

Finally,  I  married  and  went  to  England  to  live.  She 
wrote  to  me  cheerfully  from  time  to  time  and  said  how 
much  she  wanted  to  see  me,  but  never  mentioned  her 
health.  Then  came  a  letter  telling  me  she  was  in  a 
hospital,  and  had  been  operated  on  successfully  for 
appendicitis.  She  said  the  Sisters  of  Charity  were 
very  kind,  and  that  it  was  the  peacefulest  and  happiest 
time  she  had  known  for  years,  and  I  must  come  at  once 
to  see  her  when  I  arrived  in  New  York — I  was  going 
over  that  autumn — and  that  she  was  looking  forward 
with  great  joy  to  our  meeting. 

When  I  got  to  the  hotel  I  scarcely  looked  at  my  rooms, 
but  hurried  off  at  once  to  the  hospital  and  to  Nancy. 
I  was  too  late;  she  had  died  the  week  before. 

The  Sister  who  had  taken  care  of  her,  came  into  the 
room  and  told  me  of  her  illness  and  unexpected  death. 
She  said:  "You  don't  know  how  we  loved  her.  She 
was  the  most  charming  and  cheerful  patient  we  ever 
had.  When  she  came,  it  was  as  if  she  was  going  on  a 
pleasure  tour.  She  brought  her  banjo,  tied  with  many 
bright  ribbons,  and  slung  it  across  the  foot  of  her  bed. 
She  was  making  Irish  lace,  and  that  hung  in  a  little 
brocade  bag  on  the  handle  of  her  bureau,  and  with  her 
silver  brushes  and  boxes  and  her  candlesticks  on  the 
mantelpiece  and  her  books  about,  the  room  did  n't 
look  a  bit  like  one  of  our  rooms.  And  her  dressing 
jackets  and  pocket  handkerchiefs  were  so  pretty  and 
dainty,  she  said  she  had  made  and  embroidered  every- 
thing herself. 

"We  put  her  photographs  on  the  mantelpiece  by  her 
little  clock,  one  of  her  father  and  sister,  and  one,"  said 


The  Palm  Leaf  Fan  129 

the  nun  looking  at  me,  "of  you.  She  used  so  often  to 
talk  to  me  about  you.  I  never  saw  anything  like  her 
courage.  The  very  morning  of  her  operation  she  was 
playing  on  her  banjo,  and  she  went  quite  gaily  to  the 
operating-room  and  everything  passed  off  well,  and 
her  recovery  was  quick  and  satisfactory.  When  she 
was  apparently  quite  herself  again  she  wanted  a  little 
fresh  air,  and  we  thought  it  would  do  her  no  harm  to 
take  a  short  walk.  She  went  out  for  half  an  hour,  a 
sudden  rain  storm  came  up  and  drenched  her  to  the 
skin. 

"She  came  in  shivering,  her  teeth  were  chattering  with 
cold,  and  that  night  pneumonia  developed.  I  do  not 
know  if  she  thought  she  was  going  to  die.  She  was  very 
cheerful,  but  she  said,  'If  I  die,  as  you  are  from  "Way 
Down  South  in  Dixie,"  I  want  to  give  you  my  banjo. ' 
One  morning  she  was  terribly  weak  and  restless ;  her  fever 
was  high,  and  I  was  fanning  her  with  a  palm-leaf  fan, 
when  presently  she  put  out  her  hand  and  said,  '  Sister, 
I  am  sure  you  are  very  tired,  give  me  that  fan,'  and 
taking  it  from  me  with  a  sweet  but  tired  smile,  she 
moved  it  feebly  for  a  few  times;  when  I  turned,  the 
little  hand  was  still.  She  was  dead.  Her  last  action 
was  an  unselfish  one,  a  thought  for  another." 

I  said,  "I  hope  you  pray  for  her." 

The  Sister  replied,  "Oh,  yes,  I  do,  every  day.  She 
had  great  temptations,  but  great  love,  great  generosity 
and  great  self-forgetfulness,  and,"  she  added  softly, 
"God  is  merciful — always  merciful.  Would  you  like 
to  see  her  banjo?  One  of  the  Sisters  plays  a  little  and 
I  keep  it  in  that  box." 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  feel  now  as  if  I  never  wanted  to  see 
another  banjo." 

But  she  opened  the  box  and  took  out  a  palm  leaf 


130  My  Beloved  South 

fan,  laying  it  gently  on  my  lap.     "This,"  she  said,  "is 
the  last  thing  she  ever  touched." 

I  crossed  my  hands  lightly  on  the  old  fan  and  when 
the  Sister  took  it  from  me  she  said,  "You  have  been 
crying.  The  fan  is  wet  with  tears." 


CHAPTER  IX 

HOSPITABLE  CHARLESTON 

Fair  were  our  nation's  visions,  and  as  grand 
As  ever  floated  out  of  any  fancy-land; 
Children  were  we  in  simple  faith, 
But  god-like  children,  whom  nor  death, 
Nor  threat  of  danger  drove  from  honour's  path—- 
In the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

D.  B.  LUCAS. 

IT  was  said  before  the  War  that  one  letter  of  introduc- 
tion to  Charleston  would  give  you  twenty-five 
dinners,  and  twenty-five  letters  in  New  York  would 
give  you  one  dinner.  Dinners  are,  alas,  more  difficult 
to  give  in  Charleston  now,  as  the  present-day  negro 
does  not  approve  of  late  hours,  but  the  hearts  of  the 
people  are  as  hospitable  as  ever. 

We  arrived  in  that  beautiful  white  city  on  Saturday, 
and  I  had  no  sooner  delivered  my  letters  of  introduc- 
tion than  cards  were  left  accompanied  by  invitations 
(such  a  pretty,  charming  attention),  to  occupy  various 
pews  in  St.  Michael's,  a  quaint,  interesting  church  of 
English  architecture,  very  reminiscent  of  St.  Martin's 
in  the  Fields  in  London.  The  old-fashioned  pews  are 
so  high  they  almost  hide  the  occupants,  and  the  sweet 
chime  of  bells,  like  the  horses  of  St.  Mark's  in  Venice, 
have  journeyed  far,  as  in  1782  Major  Traille  of  the 
British  Army,  carried  them  as  a  trophy  of  war  to 
London.  In  1783  they  were  re-shipped  to  Charleston, 
replaced  in  the  steeple,  and  once  more  rang  out  their 
silvery  peals. 

131 


132  My  Beloved  South 

For  many  years  St.  Michael's  was  a  church  by  day 
and  a  blessed  lighthouse  by  night,  sending  out  from 
its  tall  spire  rays  of  warning  to  ships  at  sea.  The  little 
sweet  old-fashioned  churchyard  is  covered  with  grass 
and  full  of  flowers.  The  old  tombs  certainly  bear 
witness  to  the  healthy  climate,  for  almost  everybody 
seemed  to  have  lived  to  the  ripe  age  of  seventy-five, 
seventy-eight,  eighty  or  eighty-two  years.  Probably 
the  most  unique  monument  in  all  the  world  is  a  rude 
memorial  on  one  of  these  ancient  graves.  A  young 
English  settler  came  to  Charleston  with  his  wife  and 
his  belongings,  among  them  a  very  solid  oak  bedstead. 
When  his  wife  died  he  had  no  money  for  a  headstone, 
but  hoping  eventually  to  buy  one  he  put  up  temporarily 
the  head  of  the  bed.  On  it  is  cut  in  rude  letters: 
"Mary  Ann  Luyton,  wife  of  Will  Luyton.  Died 
September  9th,  1770,  in  the  27th  year  of  her  age." 
Perhaps  he  left  Charleston  before  he  could  provide 
another  headstone ;  at  any  rate,  this  stout  oak  memorial 
is  as  good  to-day  as  when  it  was  erected  in  1770.  Its 
quaintness  making  it  a  subject  of  keen  interst  to  the 
tourist,  it  is  now  protected  by  a  strong  wire  netting, 
and  there  seems  to  be  no  reason  why  it  should  not  last 
another  century. 

Charleston  had  pleasant  memories  for  me,  as  my 
Aunt  Polly  Hynes  had  made  a  visit  there  in  her  youth, 
many  years  before  the  War,  and,  as  a  little  girl,  I  used 
to  hear  her  speak  of  the  Rhetts,  the  Pinckneys,  the 
Middletons,  the  Vander  Horsts,  the  Barnwells,  the 
Pringles,  the  Ravenels,  the  Izards,  the  Draytons,  the 
Allstans  and  the  Chesnuts,  at  whose  house  she  visited. 
The  great  families  apparently  lived  like  princes,  and 
even  people  who  were  not  rich  kept  fifteen  or  twenty 
servants. 


Hospitable  Charleston  133 

Mrs.  Chesnut  was  the  "Southern  Planter's  Northern 
Bride,"  having  been  born  in  Philadelphia.  My  grand- 
father, Governor  Duval,  met  them  in  Washington  and 
corresponded  afterwards  for  many  years  with  her 
husband.  The  families  interchanged  visits,  for  the 
Chesnuts  were  as  hospitable  as  my  grandfather,  and 
fifty  times  richer.  It  was  said  there  were  more  than  a 
thousand  slaves  on  Mulberry  plantation  and  sixty  or 
seventy  servants  about  the  house.  Mrs.  Chesnut  got 
all  her  gowns  from  Paris  and  was  distinguished  for  her 
beautiful  head-dresses  and  her  lovely  jewels.  Aunt 
Polly,  during  her  visit,  was  provided  with  an  accom- 
plished lady's  maid,  who  was  an  excellent  hair-dresser 
and  a  wonderful  clear-starcher. 

In  those  days  ladies  wore  transparent  India  muslins 
embroidered  and  trimmed  with  lace,  and  organdies 
with  a  blue  or  purple  ground.  These  dainty  gowns 
required  starch  made  of  gum  arabic,  which  was  as 
transparent  as  jelly,  and  not  every  maid  understood  the 
art  of  using  it.  Aunt  Polly  embroidered  quite  as  well 
as  any  professional  needlewoman;  her  English  thread 
lace  was  transferred  from  one  dress  to  another  and 
her  India  muslins  must  have  been  exquisite,  so  she 
appreciated  a  proper  blanchisseuse.  I  have  a  little 
cape  of  drawn  work  and  embroidery,  which  I  believe 
she  was  several  years  in  making,  that  is  quite  worthy 
of  a  museum.  After  the  death  of  my  grandmother, 
who  was  her  only  sister,  she  always  wore  black-and- 
white  or  purple  and  I  never  saw  her  in  a  light-coloured 
dress. 

Whenever  dreams  were  spoken  of,  Aunt  Polly  always 
related  the  fortunate  dream  of  her  friend,  Mrs.  Robert 
Shubrick,  which  had,  under  extraordinary  circumstances, 
saved  the  life  of  her  brother  who  was  coming  to  Charles- 


134  My  Beloved  South 

ton  by  boat  from  Philadelphia.  Three  times  in  one 
night  this  lady  had  a  recurrent  vision  of  him  in  a  surging 
sea  with  a  little  white  flag  floating  in  front  of  him.  So 
impressed  was  she  with  the  truth  of  the  warning,  that 
she  got  her  husband  to  send  a  pilot  boat  to  cruise  in 
the  track  of  the  incoming  vessels,  and  the  third  day 
something  small  and  white  was  seen  floating  on  the 
waves  of  the  sea,  and,  coming  nearer,  a  half-starved 
man  ^was  picked  up  lying  on  a  chicken-coop — the  only 
survivor  of  a  ship  which  had  gone  down  three  days 
before. 

Aunt  Polly,  who  was  a  famous  gardener,  had  taken 
back  the  gardenia  with  her  to  Florida  and  from  there 
she  had  brought  it  to  Texas.  It  was  named  after 
Doctor  Garden  of  Charleston,  a  famous  horticulturist, 
a  popular  doctor  and,  although  a  Royalist,  after  the 
Revolution  he  never  left  Charleston  and  died  there. 
My  mother,  who  was  more  proud  of  her  garden  than 
of  anything  in  the  world,  used  to  say  when  she  showed 
the  hibiscus,  a  flower  which  in  the  morning  was  white, 
in  the  afternoon  rose  and  in  the  evening  red,  and  which 
I  always  thought  in  my  childhood  came  from  fairyland 
— "This  was  sent  me  from  South  Carolina  by  one  of 
the  Pinckneys." 

The  first  time  I  went  into  the  street  in  Charleston 
the  catalpa,  and  the  sweet  bay,  and  the  pink  mimosa, 
all  old  friends,  gave  me  a  fragrant  greeting.  But  the 
live  oaks,  draped  in  moss,  were  the  oldest  friends  of  all. 
Bee  and  I  started  out  intending  to  take  a  long  walk  on 
Monday  morning.  The  open  doors  of  the  library, 
however,  were  too  tempting  and  there  we  stopped.  It 
was  organised  in  1728  and  is  truly  a  delightful  place 
in  which  to  spend  an  hour  or  two.  It  contains  some 
rare  and  valuable  manuscripts  and  the  Gazette,  Charles- 


Hospitable  Charleston  135 

ton's  first  newspaper,  a  tiny  little  sheet,  printed  on 
grey  paper  with  a  printer's  ink  which  must  have 
been  very  rich  as  it  is  as  thick  and  black  as  possible 
even  to-day.  Occasionally,  it  is  cold  enough  for  fires, 
but  the  windows  and  the  doors  of  the  library  are  con- 
tinually open,  the  bright  yet  softened  sunlight  of  the 
winter  streams  in,  and  the  air  is  like  champagne,  warm 
enough  for  comfort  and  cool  enough  to  be  exhilarating, 
for  Charleston  has  a  wide  sea  frontage.  The  beautiful 
East  and  South  Batteries  with  their  splendid  houses  and 
avenues  of  palmettos  and  magnolias,  are  suggestive  of 
Nice,  but  the  climate  is  infinitely  superior  to  that  of 
the  South  of  France,  as  there  is  no  raw  chill  with  the 
setting  of  the  sun,  but  just  an  agreeable  crisp  coolness. 
A  letter  in  1617  to  Lord  Ashley  in  England  quaintly  de- 
scribes the  climate  of  Charleston :  "  It  must  of  necessity 
be  very  healthy,  being  free  from  any  noxious  vapours,  all 
summer  long  being  refreshed  with  cool  breathings  from 
the  sea,  which  up  in  the  country  we  are  not  so  fully 
sensitive  of." 

The  old  houses  are  stately  and  beautiful.  They 
combine  the  best  periods  of  English  architecture  with 
the  needs  of  the  South.  Generally  two  long  balconies, 
one  on  the  first  and  one  on  the  second  storey,  run  along 
the  entire  side  of  the  house,  and  there  Charleston  people 
live  during  the  summer,  which  is  said  to  be  by  no  means 
an  unpleasant  part  of  the  year,  with  the  bathing  and 
boating  by  moonlight  on  the  silver  sea.  The  water  of 
Charleston  is  quite  unique,  it  flows  from  artesian  wells, 
is  very  cool  and  pleasant  to  drink  and  highly  charged 
with  soda,  magnesia,  and  salt,  therefore  it  is  a  strong 
and  valuable  medicinal  water,  a  splendid  aid  to  the 
digestion  (it  was  marvellously  beneficial  to  me),  and  a 
great  skin  beautifier.  If  a  little  German  village  pos- 


136  My  Beloved  South 

sessed  the  waters  of  Charleston,  half  of  Europe  would 
be  flocking  to  drink  them.  A  clever  doctor  from  Boston 
staying  in  the  same  house  with  me,  who  had  suffered 
for  years  from  indigestion,  said  the  waters  of  Charleston 
had  completely  cured  him.  He  declared  that  if  he 
was  ten  years  younger  he  would  settle  there,  open  a 
large  sanatorium,  which  with  the  combination  of  the 
sun,  the  tonic  air,  and  the  curative  properties  of  the 
waters  would  enable  many  a  chronic  invalid  to  recover 
health.  The  environs  of  Charleston  are  quite  delight- 
ful. Summerville,  a  beautiful  little  place,  semi-tropical 
in  verdure,  rich  in  the  odour  of  flowering  shrubs,  is  so 
extraordinarily  profuse  in  its  abundance  of  wistaria 
that  it  looks  like  a  long  amethyst  picture  from  a  Japan- 
ese screen.  There  is  an  excellent  hotel  in  the  midst 
of  pine  and  cypress  and  magnolia  trees,  and  a  large  tea 
plantation  not  far  away,  which  we  drove  through. 
The  tea  did  not  interest  me  so  much  as  the  beautiful 
roses  and  camellias,  but  we  bought  a  small  package  and 
tried  it.  In  this  respect  I  fear  I  am  de-nationalised, 
for  I  infinitely  prefer  the  tea  we  get  in  England. 

On  the  other  side  of  Charleston,  fifteen  or  twenty 
minutes  by  boat  and  a  little  distance  by  rail,  is  the  Isle 
of  Palms  where  many  of  the  residents  have  cottages. 
It  is  a  charming  spot  and  might  with  equal  appropriate- 
ness be  called  the  Isle  of  Oleanders,  for  they  grow  to  a 
fine  size  and  in  great  luxuriance  among  the  palmetto 
trees  down  to  the  very  water's  edge.  On  our  return 
from  the  Isle  of  Palms  we  stopped  at  Fort  Moultrie  and 
saw  the  tomb  of  Oceola,  the  Indian  chief  who  fought 
for  America  during  the  Seminole  War.  The  Fort 
is  now  a  pleasant  military  post  and  a  fine-looking 
Irish  sergeant  showed  us  over  it,  and  pointed  out  with 
pride  Fort  Jasper,  named  in  honour  of  Sergeant  Jasper, 


Hospitable  Charleston  137 

a  gallant  non-commissioned  officer  of  the  Revolution. 
When  the  British  were  besieging  the  fort  the  flagstaff 
was  shot  away  and  the  flag  fell,  arousing  the  British  to 
a  great  cheer,  for  they  thought  it  meant  surrender. 
Jasper  leaped  from  the  wall,  seized  and  tore  the  flag 
from  the  broken  staff  and,  climbing  back  fastened  it  to 
a  rod,  saying,  "Colonel,  we  must  fight  under  our  flag!" 
and  the  white  crescent  rose  again.  Sergeant  McCarthy 
said  it  was  the  only  monument  of  a  private  soldier  in 
America. 

I  asked  him  a  good  many  questions  about  military 
service.  He  had  been  in  the  service  for  years  and  said 
it  was  harder  every  day  to  get  recruits.  America  has 
so  many  resources  and  possibilities  for  the  working 
man  that  he  hesitates  to  join  the  army.  "Still  there 
are  chances  even  for  soldiers,"  the  Sergeant  added; 
"we  have  a  private  in  the  .  .  .  who  owns  a  restaurant 
in  Charleston." 

"How  did  he  manage  that?"  asked  Bee. 

"He  is  a  Greek,"  said  the  Sergeant.  "He  enlisted 
as  soon  as  he  came  over  here  and  he  lent  out  his 
first  month's  pay  at  a  dollar-and-a-quarter  interest 
on  the  dollar,  the  money  to  be  returned  within  the 
month." 

"There  is  a  Greek  proverb  in  the  East,"  I  said, 
"  that  it  takes  two  Jews  to  be  equal  to  one  Greek." 

"Since  then,"  said  Sergeant  McCarthy,  "while 
never  spending  a  penny  himself,  he  has  lent  money  to 
the  whole  regiment." 

"And  always,"  I  said,  "gets  back  his  usurious 
interest." 

"Always,"  said  the  Sergeant,  "although  if  the  Colonel 
knew  about  it  he  would  stop  his  game.  In  four  years 
he  has  made  about  four  thousand  dollars,  but,"  he 


138  My  Beloved  South 

added  witb  a  sigh,  "only  a  Greek  can  do  it,  not  a  native- 
born  American  nor  an  Irishman.  My  pay  is  good, 
fifty  or  so  dollars  a  month.  I  am  a  bachelor  with  no 
kids  to  provide  for,  and  yet  I  go  now  and  then  to 
Calegeiri  Clementeanio  for  a  loan." 

What  a  pity  that  Greek  cannot  meet  Greek  only  in 
this  world,  for  evidently  he  will  always  get  the  better 
of  every  other  nationality. 

On  my  way  home  it  was  borne  in  upon  me  that  I  was 
really  in  my  own  leisurely  land,  for  as  we  were  hurrying 
to  the  boat  the  Captain  smilingly  called  out,  "We  will 
wait :  take  your  time,  take  your  time,  we  are  not  going 
off  without  you." 

"Now,"  I  said  to  Bee,  "there  is  the  true,  considerate, 
obliging  spirit  of  the  South." 

Charleston  socially  is  one  of  the  most  agreeable 
places  in  America  and  one  of  the  most  English,  though 
it  really  has  no  right  to  be,  for  it  was  not  like  Virginia, 
settled  by  the  Cavaliers,  but  by  a  mixture  of  races — 
English,  Scotch,  and  Irish,  Belgian,  Swiss,  and  French 
Huguenots.  But  the  English  curiously  enough  have 
left  their  impress  here  more  clearly  than  anywhere 
else  in  America.  The  accent  is  a  pretty,  softened, 
musical  English,  the  tastes  of  the  people,  the  litera- 
ture, the  atmosphere,  after  all  these  centuries,  are  still 
English. 

I  went  to  have  a  dish  of  tea  with  Mrs.  St.  Julien 
Ravenel,  the  author  of  that  delightful  book,  Charleston, 
the  Place  and  the  People,  and  found  that  she  was  inti- 
mately conversant  with  English  politics,  literature,  and 
present-day  affairs.  She  subscribes  to  a  number  of 
English  periodicals,  pictorial  magazines,  and  The  Times, 
and  is  as  well  up  in  the  news  of  London  as  any  lady 
living  in  one  of  the  provincial  towns  in  England.  She 


Hospitable  Charleston  139 

is  a  tall,  distinguished-looking  woman  of  delicate  and 
fair  appearance,  not  unlike  the  late  Baroness  Burdett- 
Coutts,  for  she  has  the  same  serious  manner  and  the 
same  cultivated  dignity  and  lovableness.  She  said 
she  had  seen  an  article  lately  in  one  of  the  Northern 
magazines  which  spoke  of  the  want  of  cultivation  in 
the  women  who  formerly  lived  on  plantations.  "There 
was  never  a  more  unfounded  assertion  than  this,"  she 
declared,  "because  women  who  were  brought  up  on  a 
plantation  had  little  to  do  except  read.  They  generally 
had  excellent  governesses,  with  access  to  good  libraries 
and  abundance  of  leisure.  There  was  constant  inter- 
course between  England  and  Charleston.  The  men  of 
the  family  were  sent  to  Eton  and  Oxford  to  be  educated, 
and  their  sisters  emulated  them  in  learning.  Many 
women  knew  both  Greek  and  Latin,  were  well  versed 
in  literature  and  knew  French  well.  This  article  went 
on  to  say  that  they  knew  nothing  of  English  litera- 
ture; yet  I  remember  one  friend,  who  had  received  her 
entire  education  in  England,  telling  me  years  ago 
that  she  had  only  read  four  American  authors — Poe, 
Hawthorne's  Marble  Faun,  but  not  his  Yankee  Tales, 
Washington  Irving,  and  Prescott's  Conquest  of  Mex- 
ico, "although,"  she  added,  "I  believe  that  is  mostly 
fiction." 

Mrs.  Ravenel  herself  is  certainly  one  of  the  most 
widely  read  women  I  have  ever  met  and,  indeed,  I 
found  all  the  people  of  Charleston  cultivated  and  intel- 
ligent, with  the  charming  manner  inherited  from  aris- 
tocratic ancestors,  who  already  from  older  countries 
had  great  traditions,  and  pride  of  family  behind  them. 
There  is  a  certain  stateliness  of  deportment  still  re- 
maining. Quite  young  people  speak  to  their  elders 
as  "Mistress  Pinckney,"  "Mistress  Pringle,"  and  so 


140  My  Beloved  South 

on.     Even  some  of  the  very  old  negroes  have  beautiful 
manners. 

John  Rutledge  wrote  to  his  brother  studying  for 
the  Bar  in  England  in  1769: 

The  very  first  thing  you  should  be  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  is  the  writing  of  shorthand,  which  you  will  find  an 
infinite  advantage.  Take  down  notes  of  everything  in 
Court,  even  if  not  worth  transcribing,  for  your  time  may 
as  well  be  employed  in  writing  as  in  hearing.  By  no  rreans 
fall  into  the  too  common  practice  of  not  attending  a  place 
of  worship.  There  is  generally  a  good  preacher  at  the 
Temple  Church.  ...  If  you  stick  to  French  and  converse 
generally  in  that  language  you  may  soon  be  master  of  it. 
Whatever  study  you  attempt,  make  yourself  completely 
master  of  it;  nothing  makes  a  person  so  ridiculous  as  to 
pretend  to  things  he  does  not  understand.  I  know  nothing 
more  entertaining  and  more  likely  to  give  you  a  graceful 
manner  of  speaking  than  seeing  a  good  play  well  acted. 
Garrick  is  inimitable,  mark  him  well  and  you  will  profit  by 
him.  You  must  not  neglect  the  classics.  Get  a  good  pri- 
vate tutor  who  will  point  out  their  beauties  to  you  and  at 
your  age  you  will  in  six  months  become  better  acquainted 
with  them  than  a  boy  at  school  generally  in  seven  or  eight 
years.  Read  Latin  authors,  the  best  frequently.  .  .  . 
Read  the  apothegms  of  Bacon,  English  history,  and  the 
enclosed  list  of  law  books;  and  when  I  say  read,  I  don't 
mean  run  cursorily  through  them  as  you  would  a  news- 
paper, but  read  carefully  and  deliberately  and  transcribe 
what  you  find  useful  in  it.  Bacon,  you  know,  is  my  favour- 
ite. You  will  think  I  have  cut  out  work  enough  for  you 
while  in  England,  and  indeed  though  it  is  a  long  time  to 
look  forward  to,  if  you  mind  your  business  you  will  not  have 
too  much  time  to  spare.  .  .  .  One  word  in  regard  to  your 
deportment.  Let  your  dress  be  plain,  always  in  the  city 
and  elsewhere,  except  when  it  is  necessary  that  it  should  be 
otherwise,  and  your  behaviour  rather  grave. 


Hospitable  Charleston  141 

Farewell,  my  dear  brother.  Let  me  hear  from  you  by 
every  opportunity, 

Believe  me, 

Yours  affectionately 

J.  RUTLEDGE. 

It  was  the  fashion  in  those  days  in  America  to  pre- 
serve a  grave  exterior.  Alas!  It  is  somewhat  of  a 
fashion  still.  I  fancy  it  was  supposed  to  portend  an 
ambitious  future.  Even  now,  any  position  of  import- 
ance and  more  especially  the  office  of  senator  seems  to 
weigh  heavily  upon  the  American  man.  A  gay  and 
witty  senator  would  be  a  positive  anachronism.  Charles 
Sumner  said  that  in  his  early  youth  he  made  one  or  two 
jokes  in  the  Senate,  and  was  advised  by  a  friend  if  he 
hoped  to  succeed  in  public  life  never  to  joke  again, 
and  he  never  did.  Imagine  it ! 

But  I  have  an  idea  that  all  the  world  over  humour 
is  regarded  as  somehow  inconsistent  with  seriousness 
of  purpose,  yet  how  very  clearly  the  eyes  of  a  humourist 
can  see,  for  humour  gives  a  just  perspective,  and  warmth 
of  heart,  keen  affection,  and  a  sensitive  nature  often 
accompany  it. 

That  gay  and  gallant  jester,  Henry  Labouchere,  who 
for  so  many  years  illumined  the  House  of  Commons 
with  his  transcendent  wit,  wrote  me  a  letter  after  the 
death  of  his  wife  in  which  he  said  now  that  she  had  gone 
before  him,  death  could  not  come  to  him  too  soon. 
Yet  how  often  men,  who  would  scarcely  give  a  sigh  of 
regret  or  remembrance  at  the  death  of  their  wives, 
have  called  him  heartless.  I  think  American  people 
are  really  graver  and  more  serious  than  English  people. 
I  suppose  it  is  the  fashion,  just  as  it  is  the  fashion  in 
England  to  take  grave  events  with  sangfroid  and 
composure. 


142  My  Beloved  South 

Dr.    Milligan,   a   surgeon,    wrote   to   London   from 
Charleston  about  1775,  and  said: 


The  inhabitants  are  of  complexion  little  different  to  the 
English,  of  good  stature,  well-made,  lively,  agreeable, 
sensible,  spirited,  open-hearted,  exceed  most  people  in  acts 
of  benevolence,  hospitality  and  charity.  The  men  and 
women  who  have  a  right  to  the  class  of  gentry,  (who  are 
more  numerous  here  than  in  any  other  colony  of  North 
America,)  dress  with  elegance  and  neatness.  The  per- 
sonal qualities  of  the  ladies  are  much  to  their  credit  and 
advantage.  Middling  stature,  genteel  and  slender,  fair 
complexioned  without  the  help  of  art,  regular  features, 
fond  of  dancing,  sing  well,  play  upon  harpsichord  and 
guitar,  etc. 

There  is  a  list  made  about  this  date  of  merchandise 
shipped  to  Charleston:  "Fine  Flanders  lace,  the  finest 
Dutch  linens,  French  cambrics,  English  chintz;  Hyson 
tea;  silks,  gold  and  silver  laces;  the  finest  Broadcloth, 
carpets,  British  and  East  Indian  handkerchiefs,  gloves 
and  ribbons,  metals,  pewter,  brass  and  copper  wrought 
of  all  sorts;  plate  and  silver;  watches,  gold  and  silver; 
books,  china,  fans  and  other  millinery  wares.  Looking- 
glasses,  pictures,  and  prints,  salad  oil;  beer  in  casks 
and  bottles,  wine  of  all  sorts,  but  the  chief  kind  drunk 
here  is  Madeira,  imported  directly  from  the  place  of 
growth."  The  day  I  dined  with  Judge  Brawley  and 
his  wife  (he  is  one  of  South  Carolina's  most  distin- 
guished sons,  a  brave  soldier  in  the  Confederate  army, 
who  lost  one  arm  in  a  gallant  encounter  almost  at  the 
beginning  of  the  War),  we  drank  to  the  success  of 
our  beloved  South  in  fine  old  Madeira. 

It  was  while  I  was  at  Charleston  that  Sam  wrote  to 
tell  me  of  the  fall  of  Harrison  Leffingwell. 


Hospitable  Charleston  143 

MY  DEAR  BESSIE, 

We  have  missed  you  very  much  at  Chevy  Chase.  The 
birds  all  went  South  when  you  did,  and  after  that  a  severe 
snowstorm  set  in  which  lasted  several  days,  but  the  weather 
is  now  warmer  again.  Also,  your  maid  has  been  discharged. 
The  motor,  after  it  came  back  from  the  machine  shop  in 
perfect  order,  suddenly  and  unaccountably  went  wrong. 
On  questioning  George,  the  butler  (he  of  the  Knox  Express 
fame) ,  it  came  out  that  Harrison  Leffingwell  had  borrowed 
the  motor  and  taken  his  best  girl  for  a  long  ride,  which 
will  cost  me  at  the  very  least  $25.00,  so  I  discharged  him 
on  the  spot.  He  was  very  saucy  and  said,  "I  take  it,  as  you 
are  a  man  of  honour  and  I  am  another,  that  this  unpleasant- 
ness between  us  will  not  prevent  my  going  to  England  with 
Mrs.  O'Connor."  I  was  not  so  severe  with  him  as  I  might 
have  been  because  I  considered  that  his  wild  career  was 
undoubtedly  helped  along  by  you.  You  made  him  think 
he  was  a  Caruso  and  a  ladies'  maid  combined,  and  there 
was  no  standing  him  after  you  left.  He  will  doubtless 
revenge  himself  on  the  family,  as  he  has  taken  /  Myself 
with  him  and  I  suppose  he  will  tear  out  the  pictures 
and  have  them  framed.  So  you  are  probably  by  this  time 
adorning  some  small  negro  shack.  You  certainly  have 
the  faculty  of  spoiling  people  more  than  anybody  I 
know.  Your  family,  however,  long  ago  got  reconciled 
to  you. 

We  don't  want  you  to  stay  too  long  in  the  South,  and 
we  hope  you  are  coming  back  for  a  visit  this  spring.  There 
is  a  mocking-bird  who  builds  his  nest  just  outside  your 
bedroom  window,  and  when  the  evenings  are  warm  he  sings 
every  night  at  nine  o'clock, — and  as  this  is  going  to  be  a 
warm  spring  he  will  come  early.  So  hurry  up.  With 
love. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

Sam. 

P.  S.    Harrison  Leffingwell  had  the  impudence  to  call  me 


144  My  Beloved  South 

up  on  the  telephone  and  ask  me  to  give  him  your  address. 
Maybe  he  has  written  you  by  this  time;  if  he  has  I  wish 
you  would  tell  him  to  send  me  back  your  book. 

And  my  faithful  Rose  wrote  to  tell  me  of  my  dear 
old  dog  Coaxy's  death.  I  was  glad  to  have  Bee  with 
me,  for  she  loved  Coaxy  well  and  was  one  of  his  best 
friends.  She  knew  there  never  was  such  a  fox-terrier 
— so  intelligent,  so  original,  so  clever,  so  quick  and  so 
affectionate  as  Coaxy. 

"Do  you  remember,"  I  said  to  Bee,  "that  scarlet 
leather  collar  with  the  brass  nails  that  you  sent  Coaxy 
from  Paris,  and  how  proud  he  was  of  it?"  He  never 
forgot  Bee,  even  after  an  absence  of  one  or  two  years, 
and  was  filled  with  joy  when  he  saw  her  and  remembered 
how  in  his  puppyhood,  when  ill  with  distemper,  she 
had  sat  for  a  whole  day  with  a  gentle  hand  in  his 
basket.  It  was  a  sad  thought  that  I  was  never  again  to 
see  my  faithful  friend  Coaxy,  a  name  evolved  from  his 
sweet  irresistible  coaxing  ways.  When  he  laid  himself 
out  to  coax,  nobody  could  resist  him. 

"Put  on  your  hat,"  said  Bee,  "and  come  out  in  the 
sun,  it  always  cheers  you,  and  here  's  a  little  case  for 
your  stamps."  It  was  marked  in  gilt  letters  "Swizzle- 
gigs."  How  many,  many  long  years  since  I  had  seen 
that  comical  dear  name,  invented  in  my  babyhood  by 
my  uncle  John  Duval,  a  tender  humourist,  who  said  it 
expressed  my  peculiar  vagaries.  I  have  often  thought 
it  wholly  appropriate  to  my  entire  restless,  changing, 
inconsequent  life.  It  would  be  impossible  for  any 
human  being  who  suggested  the  name  of  Swizzlegigs 
to  live  an  ordinary  humdrum  existence. 

"Bee,"  said  I,  "how  did  you  ever  remember?" 
But  I  need  not  have  asked ;  Bee  never  forgets. 


Hospitable  Charleston  145 

"Here  are  your  gloves,"  she  said,  "we  will  go  to  the 
Exchange  and  see  the  pretty  things." 

On  our  arrival  in  Charleston  we  had  been  lucky 
enough  to  find  shelter  in  the  house  of  Mrs.  Dotterer, 
a  handsome,  agreeable  woman  and  an  excellent  house- 
keeper. Mrs.  Chapman,  her  mother,  after  the  War, 
started  the  Woman's  Exchange,  a  most  useful  institu- 
tion with  all  sorts  of  interesting  objects  for  sale,  authen- 
tic antiques,  carved  looking-glasses,  good  specimens  of 
genuine  Sheffield  plate  and  good  copies  of  old  furniture. 
I  bought  a  wild  turkey-tail  fan  and  shall  use  it  in 
England  as  a  fire-screen.  The  "Lady  Baltimore" 
cake,  the  chef  d'ceuvre  of  the  Exchange,  so  toothsomely 
described  by  Owen  Wister,  is  now  known  all  over  the 
world.  The  ladies  there  receive  orders  from  Russia, 
China,  Japan,  and  I  daresay,  even  from  the  Balkans. 
My  kind  hostesses,  hearing  of  my  sad  loss,  gave  me  a 
little  surprise  that  evening,  a  "Lady  Baltimore"  cake 
all  my  own.  It  was  exceedingly  good,  but  very  rich, 
being  made  with  layers  of  delicate  white  cake  filled 
between  with  a  thick  sugared  paste  of  divers  sorts  of 
nuts  and  citron.  The  top  is  of  richly  flavoured  icing, 
and  covered  with  candied  flowers. 

That  night  at  supper  someone  told  the  story  of  Mrs. 
Pettigru  King,  one  of  the  idols  of  my  childhood.  She 
had  incomparable  wit,  great  charm,  and,  if  not  beauty, 
the  reflection  of  it,  for  her  skin  was  exquisite,  her 
bright  shining  nut-brown  hair  a  lovely  colour,  and  her 
smile  was  enchanting.  Thackeray  had  heard  of  her  wit, 
and,  to  draw  out  her  powers  when  she  asked  him  the 
question,  "Mr.  Thackeray,  how  do  you  like  America?" 
his  eyes  twinkling  with  mischief,  he  answered:  "Very 
much,  but  the  Americans,  they  are  vulgar."  Where- 
upon she  quickly  answered:  "That  is  easily  understood, 


146  My  Beloved  South 

for  we  are  all  descendants  of  the  English."  He  said, 
laughing,  "Forgive  my  rudeness,  it  was  only  to  make 
you  unsheathe  the  dagger  of  your  wit.  I  am  quite 
satisfied  with  the  result."  And  after  these  sharp 
thrusts  on  both  sides  they  became  the  greatest  of 
friends. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  CHARM  OF  CHARLESTON — THE  SILVER  GARDEN 

THERE  is  no  function  historically  more  delightful 
or  interesting  in  America  than  Charleston's  St. 
Cecilia  balls.  The  society  began  in  1737  with  a  concert 
given  on  a  Thursday,  St.  Cecilia's  day,  and  comprised 
originally  a  number  of  earnest  musical  amateurs  who 
soon  became  ambitious  and  paid  a  large  salary  to  the 
chef  d'orcheslre,  who  in  1773  received  five  hundred 
guineas  a  year.  The  arts  and  graces  declined,  however, 
as  the  years  went  by,  giving  place  perforce  to  more 
practical  interests.  Fewer  men  had  time  for  the  study 
of  music,  and  when  President  Monroe  accompanied  by 
John  C.  Calhoun,  his  Secretary  of  State,  visited  Charles- 
ton, it  was  decided  that  St.  Cecilia  must  give  a  ball  in 
lieu  of  a  concert.  Since  then,  except  during  the  War, 
there  has  been  no  interruption  of  the  three  balls  given 
every  winter  by  the  St.  Cecilia  Society.  The  members 
are  elected  by  the  society  and  it  is  no  uncommon  thing 
for  the  father,  grandfather,  and  great-grandfather  of  an 
applicant  to  have  been  members  before  him.  Mrs. 
Ravenel  says,  "If  a  new  resident,  or  a  family  recently 
brought  into  notice,  there  will  be  inquiry,  perhaps 
hesitation  and  a  good  backing  will  be  desirable.  When 
a  man  is  elected  the  names  of  the  ladies  of  his  household 
are  at  once  put  upon  the  list  and  remain  there  forever, 
changes  of  fortune  affecting  them  not  at  all.  The 
members  elect  the  Vice- President,  Secretary  and 

147 


148  My  Beloved  South 

Treasurer  and  Board  of  Managers;  the  managers 
continue  from  year  to  year,  vacancies  occurring  only 
by  death,  the  eldest  manager  becoming  President  and 
Vice-President  in  due  order." 

The  invitations  are  in  themselves  quite  unique,  for 
every  name  on  them  has  figured  in  history  before  and 
during  the  Revolution,  bringing  back  memories  of  the 
old  picturesque  life  of  the  plantation  gone  to  come  no 
more.  Edward  Rutledge,  one  of  the  present  managers, 
is  a  descendant  of  John  Rutledge  who  wrote  so  hero- 
ically to  Moultrie  in  1776:  "General  Lee  wishes  you  to 
evacuate  the  Fort.  You  will  not  do  so  without  an 
order  from  me.  I  will  cut  off  my  right  hand  sooner 
than  write  it. — J.  RUTLEDGE." 

Joseph  W.  Barn  well,  my  escort  to  supper,  a  handsome 
clean-shaven  barrister,  with  dark  humorous  eyes  is  a 
descendant  of  "Tuscarora  Jack,"  a  favourite  hero  of 
my  childhood,  chiefly  I  think  on  account  of  his  name, 
although  he  was  a  daring,  resolute  fighter  in  the  wars 
with  the  Indians.  Another  of  the  family,  Robert 
Woodward  Barnwell,  a  member  of  the  Convention  at 
Montgomery,  gave  the  casting  vote  which  made  Jeffer- 
son Davis  President  of  the  Confederacy.  But  every 
name, — Middleton,  Porcher,  Vander  Horst,  Sinkler, 
Stony,  Barker,  Ravenel — is  honoured  in  the  history 
not  only  of  the  State  of  Carolina,  but  of  America,  and 
these  splendid  names  have  been  as  nearly  as  possible 
preserved  in  the  invitations  of  the  St.  Cecilia's  Society 
by  the  election  of  sons,  grandsons,  and  great-grandsons 
throughout  the  centuries.  They  are  as  gallant  gentle- 
men as  their  great-grandfathers  and  even  in  the  present- 
day  balls  a  trace  of  the  old  order  exists.  No  sitting 
out  on  stair-steps  or  hiding  away  in  corners  is  allowed 
at  these  historic  parties. 


The  Charm  of  Charleston  149 

A  story  is  told  of  one  of  the  "Four  Hundred,"  who 
on  her  way  from  Florida  to  New  York  received  an 
invitation  to  a  St.  Cecilia  ball.  She  sat  out  one  or  two 
of  the  dances  on  the  staircase  outside  the  ballroom. 
Such  a  breach  of  etiquette  was  unknown  and  was 
certainly  not  to  be  allowed,  so  the  President,  a  man  of 
beautiful  manners  and  charming  address,  found  the 
lady  in  a  secluded  corner  and  offering  his  arm  said, 
"I  have  come,  dear  Madam,  to  conduct  you  to  the 
ballroom.  We  cannot  afford,  if  only  for  a  brief  moment, 
to  lose  so  brilliant  an  ornament." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  know  I  am  breaking  a  rule,  but 
all  the  world  does  it  in  New  York  and  London."  The 
President  replied,  "New  York  and  London  are  too 
large  to  look  after  individual  guests;  here  we  can  see 
to  their  welfare,  and  I  fear  you  will  take  cold  in  this 
draughty  hall."  The  lady  laughed,  took  his  arm,  and 
went  back  to  the  ballroom. 

The  men  of  Charleston  subscribe  liberally,  and  the 
balls  are  beautifully  arranged.  The  society  owns  its 
own  napery,  silver,  glass  and  table  ornaments  and, 
with  each  table  decorated  with  flowers,  the  balls  have 
all  the  refinement  of  private  entertainments.  The 
suppers  are  served  promptly  at  twelve  o'clock,  as  the 
dances  begin  at  nine,  and  are  prepared  by  negro  cooks, 
the  ladies  of  Charleston  superintending  everything  and 
often  cutting  sandwiches  and  preparing  some  special 
delicacy  with  their  own  hands.  The  round  dances 
are  interspersed  with  rather  stately  music  when  the 
older  people  walk  round  the  room,  for  the  St.  Cecilias, 
unlike  most  balls  in  America,  are  by  no  means  given 
exclusively  for  young  girls.  Mammas  and  even  grand- 
mammas are  expected  to  be  present  and  to  participate 
in  the  evening's  enjoyment. 


150  My  Beloved  South 

Etiquette  requires  the  president  to  take  down  the 
latest  bride  to  supper,  while  the  vice-president  takes 
the  most  distinguished  stranger.  The  girls  are  sup- 
posed after  each  dance  to  return  to  their  chaperons, 
and  in  this  way  the  men  are  left  free  to  seek  in  time  the 
partners  engaged  for  the  next  dance.  This  is  a  fashion 
that  might  well  be  introduced  at  other  balls  in  America. 
All  the  invitations  of  the  St.  Cecilias  are  delivered  by 
hand  and  a  stranger  must  almost  belong  to  the  lime  (Tor 
to  receive  one.  When,  however,  the  guest  has  arrived 
she  is  entertained  like  a  queen;  every  dance  on  her 
programme  is  filled  up,  or  if  she  happens  not  to  dance, 
agreeable  partners  are  provided  for  conversation,  and 
no  one  who  has  attended  a  St.  Cecilia  ball  is  likely  to 
forget  its  distinctive  and  hospitable  charm. 

There  was  one  thing  I  wanted  very  much  in  Charles- 
ton that  I  did  not  get,  a  palmetto  salad — it  is  said  to 
be  a  very  great  delicacy  and  is  made  from  the  heart  of 
the  palmetto  tree.  It  seems  a  great  extravagance  to 
destroy  an  entire  tree  for  a  dish,  but  on  the  plantations 
there  are  so  many  trees  that  one  more  or  less  makes 
very  little  difference.  Those  who  have  eaten  of  it  say 
there  is  no  flavour  so  fine  and  delicate  as  this  round 
white  heart  dressed  with  fresh  olive  oil,  lemon  instead 
of  vinegar,  and  a  dash  of  salt.  One  of  my  hostesses, 
sweet  little  Mrs.  Mitchell,  promised  if  I  would  remain 
a  few  days  longer  she  would  send  to  her  plantation  for 
this  luxurious  speciality  of  South  Carolina,  and  make 
a  salad  with  her  own  tiny  hands.  I  could  n't  wait,  but 
some  day  I  am  going  back  for  it. 

The  morning  for  our  visit  to  the  Magnolia  Cemetery 
was  glorious  with  sunshine,  and  Bee  proposed  that  we 
should  make  a  detour  and  go  by  the  East  Battery  to 
take  our  car.  Even  grim  Fort  Moultrie  looked  cheerful 


The  Charm  of  Charleston  151 

that  day;  there  were  several  beautiful  yachts  in  the 
harbour,  the  avenue  of  palmettos  rustled  their  leaves 
in  a  faint  bright  breeze,  and  as  I  turned  to  look  at  the 
pretty  white  town,  peaceful  and  prosperous,  it  seemed 
amazing  that  so  much  of  it  had  survived  the  five  hun- 
dred and  sixty  days  of  bombardment  it  had  sustained 
during  the  Civil  War.  Certainly  no  city  has  suffered 
in  the  past  more  than  Charleston,  for,  after  the  long 
siege,  when  her  sons  by  land  and  sea  kept  her  "virgin 
and  inviolate  to  the  last,"  came  a  severe  earthquake. 
The  house  we  were  living  in  carries  a  great  iron  bar 
across  the  front  in  memory  of  this  event.  Fate  seems 
indeed  to  have  tried  the  people  in  order  to  prove  their 
courage,  which  is  indomitable. 

The  cannon  along  the  Battery  always  detained  us 
for  a  little ;  they  speak  so  eloquently  of  that  long  bom- 
bardment, and  each  bears  a  brass  tablet  telling  of  the 
service  it  had  done.  A  big  gun  looking  directly  upon 
Fort  Moultrie  had  been  down  in  the  depths  of  the  sea 
and  this  was  its  honourable  record :  "  This  gun,  having 
taken  part  in  the  attack  on  Fort  Sumter  by  an  armoured 
squadron,  April  7th,  1863,  was  recovered  from  the  wreck 
of  the  sunken  Keokuk  by  an  exploit  of  heroic  enterprise, 
and  mounted  on  Sullivan's  Island,  where  for  two  years 
it  was  used  in  defence  of  the  city  it  had  once  been 
brought  to  attack.  Removed  to  this  place  by  the 
Civil  Authority,  August,  1889."  Some  of  the  guns  had 
seen  four  years  of  active  service;  when  the  sun  shone 
so  brilliantly  upon  them  it  turned  the  black  of  the  iron 
into  a  shimmering  blue.  Fate,  with  even  her  hardest 
knocks,  cannot  deprive  Charleston  of  its  ideal  climate, 
and  in  another  decade  all  her  old  prosperity  will  return 
to  her,  for  there  is  no  more  beautiful  spot  in  America 
than  this  lovely  city  by  the  sea.  Even  Magnolia 


152  My  Beloved  South 

Cemetery  smiled  that  day,  and  the  dead  seemed  in 
happy  peace.  The  monument  to  South  Carolina's 
great  soldier,  General  Wade  Hampton,  stands  in  the 
centre  of  the  Confederate  dead,  whom  with  such 
valiant  courage  he  led  into  heroic  action.  The  most 
beautiful  monuments  are  not  however  of  stone;  they 
are  nature's  great  live-oaks,  with  their  widely  spread- 
ing branches,  bending  tenderly  over  the  hundreds  of 
little  headstones,  as  if  to  say,  "Soldiers,  sleep  well." 
And  I  thought  of  Father  Ryan's  little  verses: 

Old  trees !  old  trees !  in  your  mystic  gloom 

There  's  many  a  warrior  laid, 

And  many  a  nameless  and  lonely  tomb 

Is  sheltered  beneath  your  shade. 

Old  trees !  old  trees !  without  pomp  or  prayer 

We  buried  the  brave  and  the  true, 

We  fired  a  volley  and  left  them  there 

To  rest,  old  trees,  with  you. 

Old  trees !  old  trees,  keep  watch  and  ward 
Over  each  grass-grown  bed ; 
'T  is  a  glory,  old  trees,  to  stand  as  guard 
Over  our  Southern  dead; 
Old  trees,  old  trees,  we  shall  pass  away 
Like  the  leaves  you  yearly  shed, 
But  ye!  lone  sentinels,  still  must  stay 
Old  trees,  to  guard  our  dead. 

The  sun  grew  so  warm  that  to  escape  it  I  sat  under 
one  of  the  trees  with  the  long  grey  moss  softly  touching 
my  face  like  the  gentle  hand  of  an  old  friend.  Bee 
was  busy  with  her  kodak  trying  to  get  an  impression 
of  one  of  the  ancient  oaks  carrying  seven  centuries  of 
mystic  gloom,  when  a  lady,  dressed  in  deepest  mourning, 
with  a  sweet  face,  old,  thin  and  very  white,  came  and 


The  Charm  of  Charleston  153 

sat  beside  me.  She  said,  "Good  morning;  the  sun  is 
very  warm  for  this  time  of  the  year." 

I  said,  "It  is,  indeed,  but  having  been  out  of  the 
South  so  long  I  am  more  than  grateful  for  it." 

"Do  you,"  she  said,  "live  abroad?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  live  in  London,  at  least  I  used  to 
live  in  London;  but  now  I  have  no  'dwelling  more  by 
sea  or  shore. ' 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "then  it  is  better  to  wander." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "perhaps; — this  is  a  very  beautiful 
place  for  rest." 

She  said,  "I  try  to  find  it  so,  for,  like  Bobbie,  the 
little  faithful  dog  in  Edinburgh,  who  when  he  lost  his 
master  spent  his  life  by  the  side  of  his  grave,  I  spend 
my  life  here.  All  my  six  children  sleep  over  there — " 
she  pointed  to  a  row  of  graves  not  far  off.  "Whenever 
the  sun  shines  I  come  here  in  the  morning,  and  I  leave 
in  the  evening.  I  do  not  always  bring  flowers,  but  I 
talk  to  them  and  often  I  go  away  comforted,  for  I  feel 
they  have  talked  to  me." 

"  I,  too,  have  my  sorrows,  but  they  are  nothing  com- 
pared to  yours." 

"I  can  bear  mine,"  she  said,  "for  I  know  I  shall  find 
my  children  again.  I  am  a  little  lonely  and  I  grow 
weary  of  waiting,  but  that  is  all." 

"Good-bye,"  I  said  "I  shall  often  think  of  you." 

"I  need  not  give  you  my  address  in  Charleston," 
she  said,  "you  will  always  find  me  here." 

Bee  had  photographed  the  noble  tree  and  met  me 
with  her  camera. 

"You  look  white  and  fagged,  are  you  tired?"  she 
asked. 

"No,"  I  said,  "but  a  broken  heart  that  still  lives 
has  been  shown  to  me.  The  quiet  hearts  of  the  dead 


154  My  Beloved  South 

are  at  peace;  it  is  the  sorrows  of  the  living  that  are 
overwhelming. ' ' 

And  as  we  walked  along  under  the  brilliant  sunshine, 
I  told  her  of  the  poor  lady  that  we  had  left  with  all  her 
devoted  dead;  and  when  I  had  finished  Bee's  cheeks 
were  not  quite  so  pink,  for  she  has  a  very  tender, 
maternal,  protecting  nature.  Her  hand  is  instinctively 
stretched  out  to  succour  and  to  help.  If  she  gets  out  of 
a  street-car  and  an  old  lady  follows,  Bee  waits  like  a 
perfect  gentleman  to  help  her  out.  If  a  friend  is  ill, 
Bee  never  fails  to  make  a  daily  visit ;  if  a  child  is  fretful 
Bee  can  comfort  it,  and  there  is  nothing  in  medicine 
or  science  for  the  benefit  of  humanity  which  does  not 
appeal  to  her.  To  the  world  she  presents  a  frank, 
boyish  front,  and  never,  under  any  circumstances, 
indulges  in  gush,  even  with  her  best  beloved  friends. 
But  in  her  blue  eyes  there  is  the  same  expression  that 
I  remember  in  the  eyes  of  a  nun,  who  when  she  died,  left 
eighteen  hundred  foundlings  and  waifs  under  her  roof. 
Bee  is  sensitively  proud  and  the  soul  of  modesty.  She 
is  indifferently  polite  to  men,  unless  they  happen  to  be 
engaged  to  her  best  friends,  when  she  puts  aside  her  maid- 
enly armour  and  is  her  own  gracious  hospitable  self. 

"Why  do  you,"  I  said  to  her,  "stand  that  conceited 
bore  of  a  professor,  give  him  Mary's  best  wine  to  drink, 
and  have  turkey  for  dinner  whenever  he  comes?" 

" Because,"  said  Bee,  "he  is  going  to  marry  my  friend 
Dorothy  next  month.  She  lives  in  Boston,  and  she 
has  been  such  a  long  time  making  up  her  mind  to  do 
it  I  felt  that  I  must  give  her  some  encouragement." 

I  said,  "Poor  Dorothy;  she  is  going  to  be  bored  to 
extinction." 

But  Bee  answered  cheerfully,  "He  has  his  good 
points." 


The  Charm  of  Charleston  155 

Friendship  is  with  Bee  a  sacred  trust,  something  not 
to  be  lightly  embarked  upon,  but  when  once  under- 
taken it  assumes  for  her  life-long  and  loyal  obligations. 
She  belongs  to  the  type  of  woman  who  having  married, 
would  never,  however  unhappily  mated,  divorce  her 
husband,  and  at  no  matter  what  cost  to  herself  would 
bear  her  sorrows  in  noble  silence  and  live  up  to  her 
highest  ideals  to  the  end.  And  sometimes  Fate  is 
kind  to  me,  for  Bee  is  my  friend. 

It  was  early  for  the  Garden  of  the  Magnolias,  that 
marvellous  spot  of  beauty  now  frequently  described 
and  illustrated  both  in  pictorial  papers  and  in  magazines. 
The  boats  were  not  running  yet  to  the  Ashley  River, 
and  to  go  first  to  Summerville  and  then  a  long  drive  to 
the  garden  and  back  again  in  one  day  meant  a  fatiguing 
journey,  so  Bee  and  I  evolved  an  excellent  plan.  We 
found  a  man  with  a  motor  boat  who  said  if  we  secured 
eighteen  passengers  he  would  take  us  on  reasonable 
terms.  Five  people  were  mustered  from  our  house, 
and  the  remainder  from  different  hotels,  which  we 
notified  of  our  excursion,  and  the  next  morning  at  ten 
o'clock  we  embarked.  It  was  a  warm  soft  spring  day. 
The  sky  was  deep  blue,  with  a  few  billowy  white  clouds 
blown  by  a  bright  wind  into  eager  motion.  In  the 
distance,  a  violet  and  pearl  mist  slowly  lifted  itself, 
leaving  the  fresh  tender  green  of  budding  trees  and 
shrubberies  greener  still  from  the  soft  moisture,  and 
now  and  then  a  breath  of  yellow  jessamine  or  honey- 
suckle floated  towards  us,  showing  that  the  sun  had 
been  kind. 

We  steamed  along  amidst  pretty  scenery,  quiet 
plantations  on  either  side,  many  of  them  having  his- 
torical interest  and  all  of  them  former  scenes  of  open- 
armed,  hospitable  gaiety.  The  grass  at  the  landing  of 


156  My  Beloved  South 

the  Magnolia  Gardens  was  as  green  as  that  of  Ireland. 
The  red-bud  and  flowering  peach  and  plum  and  almond 
trees  were  all  in  blossom,  and  the  hum  of  the  bees 
seemed  to  belong  to  midsummer. 

A  cohort  of  black  gardeners,  male  and  female,  met 
us,  the  men  in  blue  jean  and  the  women  wearing  calico 
dresses  and  plaid  head  handkerchiefs,  as  "befo'  de  wa '." 
They  led  us  politely  through  the  winding  paths,  where 
on  each  side  every  known  flower  was  grown,  yellow 
and  pink  old-fashioned  cabbage  roses,  the  canary 
coloured  tea-rose,  the  monthly  rose,  which  in  the  South 
is  a  daily  rose  until  January,  and  sometimes  faithfully 
blooms  the  whole  year  round.  The  hundred-leaf  rose, 
with  its  close  rosette  in  the  centre;  the  little  white  and 
pink  Cherokee  rose,  the  crimson  and  yellow  rambler; 
the  musky  moss-rose,  in  great  luxuriance,  and  there  were 
wide  beds  of  pinks  and  carnations,  yellow,  white,  rose 
and  red.  A  carnation  always  breathes  to  me  of  passion, 
but  a  clean  passion;  there  is  nothing  heavy  and  sultry 
about  its  fresh  perfume,  it  is  frank ;  robust  and  hardy. 
Even  in  the  dry  hot  atmosphere  of  an  over-heated  room 
this  flower,  so  full  of  vitality,  refuses  to  die,  and  lasts 
for  many  days.  A  friend,  young,  happy,  distinguished 
in  his  career,  once  travelled  a  day  and  a  night  to  see  me 
for  only  one  hour.  He  gave  me  at  our  parting  half  a 
hundred  splendid  carnations,  a  flower  for  each  day  of 
our  separation ; — before  they  were  withered  he  was  dead. 
I  never  saw  him  again,  but  every  carnation  throughout 
all  the  years  brings  me  a  fragrant  memory  of  him. 

Near  the  beds  of  these  dear  flowers  was  a  stately 
tomb  of  Italian  marble;  the  negroes  said  it  was  a 
former  owner  who  wished  to  sleep  always  amidst  the 
luxuriance  of  the  flowers  he  loved  so  well.  If  the 
gardens  had  been  called  the  Gardens  of  the  Camellias 


The  Charm  of  Charleston  157 

it  would  not  have  been  a  misnomer,  for  before  the 
blossoming  of  the  magnolias  they  reign  supreme  and  are 
of  every  colour,  size,  and  known  variety.  The  white 
flower  was  in  perfection  that  gave  Marguerite  Gautier 
her  poetic  name,  The  Lady  of  the  Camellias,  one  of 
which  she  gave  to  Armand  Duval,  saying,  "When  this 
flower  is  withered  come  back  to  me."  As  a  contrast 
to  its  dazzling  purity,  scarlet  flowers  flamed  on  either 
side,  and  there  were  camellias  of  a  pink  so  evanescent 
that  it  was  like  the  blush  of  a  fair  young  girl.  Other 
varieties  seemed  to  borrow  the  glories  of  them  all, 
scarlet  flecked  with  white,  white  splashed  with  crimson, 
and  a  pale  pearl  pink,  the  leaves  deepening  at  one  side 
into  a  vivid  vermilion.  The  real  queen  of  the  garden 
was  an  opulent  flower  of  a  rich,  pure  du  Barry  rose, 
painted  with  splashes  of  white,  as  if  Puck  had  dashed 
on  the  colours  with  reckless  brush  while  waiting  to  go 
on  that  gay  and  breathless  journey,  when  he  girdled 
the  world  in  forty  minutes.  The  bold-faced  trumpet 
flower,  giving  colour  to  the  long  pendants  of  sombre 
moss,  had  climbed  to  the  very  tops  of  some  of  the 
beautiful  old  live-oaks,  the  trees  that  in  all  the  world  I 
love  the  best.  For  one  of  my  first  memories  is  of  my 
father  finishing  a  chapter  of  Guy  Mannering  or  The 
Bride  of  Lammermoor,  under  the  spreading  shade  of  a 
great  live-oak,  with  little  negroes  and  dogs  tumbling 
at  his  feet,  while  I,  a  maiden  of  five,  called  to  him  from 
the  porch  to  come,  for  Buttons,  my  pony,  and  Pomp, 
his  horse,  were  waiting  at  the  gate  for  our  afternoon 
ride. 

There  is  an  eternal  beauty  about  the  live-oak  sur- 
passing that  of  all  the  other  forest  trees.  With  its 
great  age,  its  superb  dignity,  its  rough,  burly  bark, 
and  its  thousands  of  leaves,  it  is  an  inspiring  poem : 


158  My  Beloved  South 

"I  have  waked,  I  have  come,  my  beloved!     I  might  not 

abide; 
I  have  come  ere  the  dawn,  oh  beloved,  my  live-oaks  to  hide 

In  your  gospelling  glooms — to  be 

As  a  lover  in  heaven,  the  marsh,  my  marsh,  and  the  sea, 
my  sea." 

Near  the  protecting  branches  of  a  splendid  live-oak 
grew  a  perfect  tree,  the  glory  of  the  South,  the  magni- 
ficent magnolia  grandiflora,  in  the  first  perfection  of 
exquisite  bloom.  Its  glossy  pointed  dark  green  leaves 
held  that  divine  chalice  of  creamy  white  as  if  to  shelter 
and  guard  its  unapproachable  beauty.  Each  flawless 
leaf  of  the  flower  seemed  sculptured  in  fine,  smooth 
ivory;  its  perfume  was  the  breath  of  all  the  South, 
evanescent,  yet  powerful  and  alluring,  creating  a 
strange  desire  to  breathe  its  manifold  fragrance  again 
and  yet  again,  for  it  was  redolent  of  a  thousand  odours, 
myrrh  and  sandalwood,  musk  and  mignonette,  myrtle 
and  olive,  orange  and  oleander,  rose  and  geranium, 
mimosa  and  gardenia.  It  is  all  of  them,  yet  none  of 
them,  but  only  itself,  this  stately  grandiflora,  the 
most  fitting  emblem  of  the  South. 

The  azaleas  were  not  in  full  flower,  but  they  blos- 
somed thickly  around  a  miniature  lake,  to  the  very 
water's  edge,  forming  a  frame  of  pink  and  yellow  fire, 
the  blue  water  reflecting  again  the  rose  and  gold,  made 
a  very  feast  of  vivid  colour.  A  trifle  to  the  right  of 
this  rainbow  lake,  the  shrubbery  seemed  impenetrable, 
but  I  pushed  my  way  though  and  my  startled  eyes 
rested  upon  a  silver  garden,  a  circle  of  shimmering 
patterned  silver  lace.  It  seemed  a  beautiful  unreal 
vision,  this  most  strange  and  exquisite  fairy  ring, 
formed  by  a  belt  of  live-oaks,  one  standing  a  little 
forward  as  if  listening  to  the  voices  of  the  others;  the 


A  Silver  Garden  159 

greenness  of  each  tree  softly  and  modestly  veiled  by 
the  long,  pearly  grey,  waving  moss,  which  from  time  to 
time  had  fallen  and  been  blown  about,  until  a  soft, 
light,  and  tender  silver  grey  resilient  carpet  covered 
all  the  earth.  Each  tendril  of  the  moss,  dependent 
from  the  trees,  was  be-pearled  by  a  light  rain  of  the 
night  before,  and  where  the  strong  rays  of  the  sun 
penetrated  and  shone  upon  the  pearls  they  were  turned 
to  myriads  of  sparkling  diamonds.  And  beyond  this 
enchanting  zone  there  were  flashes  of  colour  mingling 
with  the  subdued  radiance  of  the  silver.  From  the 
outside  of  the  circle,  yellow  and  white  jessamine  and 
purple  wistaria  and  coral  honeysuckle  had  climbed 
over  the  tops  of  the  trees  and  softly  trailed  over  the 
grey  moss,  forming  on  the  inside  an  irregular  fringe 
of  flowers.  And,  peeping  impudently  through  the 
lower  branches  of  the  trees,  there  appeared  the  saucy 
face  of  a  pink  or  rose  or  red  japonica,  while  here  and 
there  the  outer  edge  of  the  carpet  was  brightened  by  an 
occasional  patch  of  fallen  white  and  scarlet  petals,  and 
underneath  the  tall  oak,  standing  inside  the  charmed 
circle,  a  little  ring  of  pointed,  green  leaves,  with  their 
starry  blossoms  had  gallantly  pushed  themselves  up 
through  the  silver  moss,  and,  covered  with  dew-drops, 
they  glistened  like  a  band  of  translucent  opals.  And 
I  knew  that  if  I  waited  until  nightfall  Titania  and 
Oberon  and  Puck  would  meet  me  there. 

No  one  came  to  see  this  silver  garden  and  I  was  glad 
that  its  solitary  loveliness  was  to  be  mine  alone.  I 
heard  Bee  calling  and  I  walked  down  the  winding  path 
with  long  wands  of  bridal  wreath,  flowering  almond, 
and  trails  of  roses  touching  my  face,  but  when  I  saw  a 
little  by-path  I  turned  back  again  for  I  wanted  this 
vision  of  luminous  pearl  and  tarnished  silver  to  be 


160  My  Beloved  South 

fixed  forever  in  my  memory.  And  I  thought  of  one 
who  could  have  immortalised  its  glory,  a  Southern  poet, 
young,  gifted,  beautiful,  who  died  on  the  threshold  of 
life.  He  believed  that  "Music  was  harmony — Har- 
mony was  Love — and  Love  was  God."  Perhaps  these 
many  years  he  has  abided  in  a  silver  garden  whose 
radiance  is  unfading,  whose  light  is  eternal. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  SAVANNAH 

"  \  X  7HY  on  earth  do  you  go  to  Savannah?"  said  a 
V  V  very  old  lady  in  Charleston  with  thick  white 
hair  majestically  rolled  back  from  her  forehead,  and 
her  wrinkled  hands  adorned  with  quaint  diamond 
rings,  relics  of  her  ancestors  before  the  Revolution. 
"You  won't  see  anything  there  except  Jews  and 
Yankees." 

"Jews,"  I  said,  "are  a  wonderful  race.  Look  at  the 
artists  and  musicians,  authors  and  financiers  they 
have  given  us,  and  for  me  they  have  been  among  my 
best  and  most  serviceable  friends.  At  the  close  of  the 
Confederacy  Mrs.  Clement  Clay  could  not  have  got 
to  Washington  to  plead  for  the  life  of  her  husband, 
except  for  the  whole-hearted  kindness  of  a  Jew.  Don't 
you  remember  what  she  wrote  in  her  memoirs: 

" '  The  middle  of  November  had  arrived  ere,  by  the  aid 
of  Mr.  Robert  Herstein,  a  kindly  merchant  of  Hunts- 
ville — may  his  tribe  increase' — (and  so  say  I) — 'who 
advanced  me  one  hundred  dollars,  (and  material  for  a 
silk  gown  to  be  made  when  I  should  reach  my  destina- 
tion), I  was  enabled  to  begin  my  journey  to  the  Capital, ' 
— A  distinguished  Jew  at  a  grand  party  in  London  was 
once  my  escort  to  supper  and  I  ate  so  many  olives  he 
asked  me  if  I  was  a  Jewess." 


162  My  Beloved  South 

"With  that  blunt  nose  of  yours,  my  dear,"  said  my 
friend,  "he  must  have  been  a  stupid  Jew." 

"And,"  I  said,  "I  know  a  true  and  wonderful  ro- 
mance of  a  Jew  gifted  with  godlike  beauty,  and  an 
Empress.  Some  day  I  am  going  to  tell  the  story  and 
call  it  The  Heart  of  a  Jew" 

The  lady  drew  herself  up  stiffly.  "You  are  Catholic 
in  your  tastes,"  she  said,  "and  what  do  you  think  of 
Yankees?" 

"Josh  Billings,"  I  said,  "when  asked  after  a  tour  in 
France  what  he  thought  of  the  French,  answered,  'I 
find  that  generally  everywhere  human  nature  prevails. ' 
I  have  known  very  charming,  agreeable,  and  generous 
Yankees." 

The  lady  said  coolly,  "My  dear,  you  have  been  very 
lucky;  but  you  are  a  Southern  woman  no  longer,  you 
are  merely  a  citizen  of  the  world." 

"No,"  I  said,  "that  is  where  you  are  mistaken. 
The  one  satisfactory  thing  in  my  shorn  and  unsatisfac- 
tory life  is  that  I  was  born  a  Southern  woman.  I  love 
the  South  and  everything  in  it.  I  could  be,  if  I  allowed 
myself,  rigid  and  narrow,  but  I  just  open  my  heart  and 
won't  be.  It  seems  to  me  we  should  all  try  in  a  meas- 
ure to  understand  the  paean  of  praise  written  in  memory 
of  that  brilliant  Irishman,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly: 

'"Sees  he  the  planet  and  all  on  its  girth — 
India,  Columbia  and  Europe — his  eagle-sight 

Sweeps  at  a  glance  all  the  wrong  upon  earth. 
Races  or  sects  were  to  him  a  profanity: 

Hindoo  and  Negro  and  Kelt  were  as  one; 
Large  as  mankind  was  his  splendid  humanity, 

Large  in  its  record  the  work  he  has  done. ' 

"We  cannot  of  course  reach  his  high  altitude,  at 


In  Savannah  163 

least  I  cannot,"  I  added,  "but  my  beloved  father,  with 
his  broad  humanity  managed  it,  and  not  only  his  body, 
but  his  soul — the  very  essence  of  him,  belonged  to  the 
South." 

"You  loved  your  father,"  said  the  lady. 

"I  think,"  I  said,  "that  every  human  being  brought 
into  contact  with  that  noble,  generous  spirit  loved  him." 

"I  too,"  said  the  lady,  "loved  my  father.  He  was 
the  grandest  gentleman  I  ever  knew.  He  came  from 
Savannah,  but  that  was,  of  course,  before  the  War, 
and  it  was  there  I  met  my  husband  at  a  fancy  ball. 
How  handsome  he  was,  dressed  in  black  velvet  as  the 
Duke  of  Buckingham.  I  went  as  little  Red  Riding 
Hood,  wore  a  red  cloak,  long  yellow  curls  on  either 
side  of  my  face,  and  carried  a  basket  of  eggs.  My 
husband  had  this  little  gold  egg,  which  is  a  vinaigrette, 
made  in  memory  of  our  meeting  and  I  Ve  worn  it  on 
my  chatelaine  ever  since.  My  father  is  buried  at 
Bona venture.  Of  course,"  she  said,  relenting,  "you 
will  enjoy  Savannah  as  a  city,  but  you  will  see  that  it 
does  n't  compare  with  Charleston." 

I  got  up  to  say  good-bye  and  a  quaint  portrait  of 
two  children  attracted  my  attention. 

"Mary  Ellen  and  Laura  Lee,"  said  my  hostess, 
"they  were  real  Charles  the  First  children  in  appear- 
ance and  I  always  cut  their  hair  and  dressed  them 
in  that  fashion.  It  was  the  only  style  that  became 
them." 

Yet  it  is  said  that  America  is  modern!  America  is 
what  you  wish  to  find  it — intensely  progressive,  or 
entirely  of  the  past  and  conservative.  In  its  broad 
area  any  climate  in  the  world  can  be  found.  Any 
taste  in  the  world  can  be  gratified. 

Bee  said  when  I  came  in,  "  Swizzlegigs,  I  must  be 


1 64  My  Beloved  South 

getting  back  to  Washington  to  work.  Can  you  go  to 
Savannah  to-morrow?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  can;  we  could  have  gone  before 
only  I  dread  your,  leaving  me,  and  starting  off  to  New 
Orleans  alone." 

We,  however,  went  the  next  day  to  Savannah  and 
found,  as  in  Charleston,  a  heavenly  winter  climate. 
It  was  warm  enough  to  go  to  the  theatre  in  the  evening 
without  wraps  or  hats.  We  spent  the  next  morning 
at  the  Art  Gallery,  where  they  have  the  nucleus  of  an 
interesting  collection  of  pictures.  Gari  Melchers, 
himself  a  most  distinguished  artist,  buys  for  the  gallery, 
and  I  never  saw  a  better  Hitchcock — a  long  stretch  of 
early  tulips  in  Holland,  a  very  wealth  of  fresh,  exhilar- 
ating, variegated,  vivid  colour. 

In  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Lester,  the  widow  of  Senator 
Rufus  Lester,  who  for  years  so  ably  represented  Georgia 
in  the  United  States  Senate,  came  in  her  motor  to  take 
us  out  to  Thunderbolt,  one  of  the  picturesque  and 
convenient  suburbs  of  the  city.  It  is  on  the  beautiful 
Warsaw  River  and  was  named  from  a  thunderbolt, 
which  in  a  terrifying  storm  buried  itself  deep  in  the 
ground,  loosening  the  waters  which  ever  afterwards 
gushed  forth  in  a  bountiful  spring.  The  sunshine  was 
white  and  weak,  and  a  thin  gauzy  mist  of  blue  and 
lavender  lingered  on  the  river,  but  even  while  we  looked 
upon  it  the  sun  shone  brightly,  penetrated  the  fair  veil 
and  promised  the  splendour  of  an  orange  and  purple 
sunset. 

"That,"  said  Mrs.  Lester,  pointing  to  a  picturesque 
house,  "is  the  Savannah  Yacht  Club."  And  as  we 
motored  farther  along  the  fine  road,  "There  is  Bannon 
Lodge,  famous  for  its  wonderful  variety  of  fish  and  the 
excellence  with  which  it  is  cooked."  When  we  turned 


In  Savannah  165 

towards  the  river  I  saw  palmetto  and  myrtle,  orange 
and  magnolia,  catalpa,  sweet  olive  and  oleander,  giving 
out  already  their  thin  sweet  scents  and  promising  a 
wealth  of  fragrance  a  little  later  in  the  spring.  We 
were  almost  in  sight  of  Bona venture,  known  to  me  from 
a  much-liked  story  that  my  father,  who  was  born  in 
Georgia,  used  to  tell. 

In  1760,  the  property  belonged  to  Colonel  Mulryne, 
an  Englishman.  The  grounds  were  of  surpassing 
loveliness,  immense  live-oaks  draped  in  moss  made  the 
air  cool  with  their  grateful  shade.  There  was  a  large 
brick  house  facing  the  grassy  terraces  which  extended 
to  the  river,  and  a  famous  grove  of  magnolias  leading 
to  the  road  scented  all  the  air.  Colonel  Mulryne  was 
entertaining  a  large  company  at  dinner  when  he  was 
informed  that  the  roof  was  ablaze  and  there  was  no 
possibility  of  saving  the  house. 

"Ah,"  he  said  quickly,  "then  we  must  dine  on  the 
lawn."  The  table  was  quickly  removed  by  a  number 
of  slaves  and  the  dinner  finished  while  the  house  burned 
to  the  ground. 

Cool  and  sustained  courage  is  certainly  one  of  the 
most  picturesque  and  admirable  of  human  traits.  I 
know  an  ex-naval  officer  who  had  gone  into  business 
in  New  York.  While  giving  a  large  dinner  at  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Hotel,  he  happened  to  look  up  at  the  special 
report  of  the  stock  market  while  the  guests  were  being 
marshalled  in  the  dining-room,  and  saw  that  through 
an  unexpected  panic  everything  he  owned  had  been 
swept  away,  leaving  him  penniless.  His  face  never 
changed,  and  no  one  at  the  dinner  was  more  gay  or 
agreeable  than  the  self-possessed  host.  Next  morning, 
one  of  the  guests,  a  millionaire,  hearing  of  his  loss  and 
remembering  the  way  he  had  borne  it,  called  upon  him 


1 66  My  Beloved  South 

and  said,  "  I  've  come  to  place  forty  thousand  dollars 
at  your  disposal.  A  man  with  your  steady  nerve  is 
bound  to  win."  And  he  did,  eventually  becoming 
president  of  the  Pacific  Mail  Steamship  Company, 
with  a  salary  of  fifty  thousand  dollars  a  year. 

Colonel  Mulryne  rebuilt  his  house  and  was  living  in 
it  at  the  beginning  of  the  Revolution.  He  was  a  Whig, 
but  his  patriotism  stopped  at  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence; and,  giving  shelter  to  Governor  Wright,  he 
was  persuaded  to  accompany  him  when  he  left  America 
and  sailed  in  a  man-of-war  for  England.  Mary  Mul- 
ryne, his  daughter,  an  heiress,  had  married  Josiah 
Tatnall,  a  Royalist,  who  in  disgust  also  went  to  England 
to  live.  Her  boys,  however,  born  in  America,  wished 
to  return  and  the  eldest,  Josiah,  finally  ran  away,  and 
on  his  arrival  in  Georgia  joined  the  army  of  General 
Nathaniel  Greene.  Inheriting  the  cool,  intrepid  cour- 
age of  his  grandfather,  he  served  with  great  distinction 
during  the  War  of  the  Revolution  and  was  rapidly 
promoted  from  a  lieutenancy  to  be  Colonel  of  the  first 
Georgia  regiment.  In  recognition  of  his  services,  part 
of  his  estates,  including  his  birthplace,  Bonaventure, 
were  restored  to  him,  and  when  the  war  was  over  he 
made  a  no  less  distinguished  statesman  than  soldier. 
He  served  first  in  the  Legislature,  and  was  afterwards 
sent  to  Congress.  On  his  return  from  Washington  he 
was  elected  Governor  of  Georgia,  and  all  this  brilliant 
career  was  compassed  in  the  short  space  of  thirty-six 
years.  Had  he  lived,  his  would  doubtless  have  been  one 
of  America's  most  illustrious  names.  He  was  buried 
in  the  grounds  of  Bonaventure  that  he  loved  so  well, 
beneath  a  great  oak,  and  his  son  inherited  the  beautiful 
estate  won  back  to  the  family  by  his  father's  patriotism. 
But  it  was  not  to  remain  with  the  Tatnalls,  for  nearly 


In  Savannah  167 

a  century  later  Bonaventure  was  again  confiscated, 
when  his  grandson,  Commodore  Tatnall,  refused  to 
remain  in  the  service  of  the  United  States  Navy.  He 
was  the  officer  who  in  June,  1859,  had  helped  the  British 
fleet  in  the  Peiho,  giving  as  his  reason  in  a  despatch  to 
the  Navy  Department "  that  blood  is  thicker  than  water ." 
During  the  war  with  Mexico,  he  fought  so  gallantly 
that  the  State  of  Georgia  had  sent  him  a  splendid  sword. 
He  could  not  turn  that  sword  against  her  in  her  bitter 
hour  of  need.  And  yet  he  had  been  a  distinguished 
officer  in  the  United  States  Navy  for  fifty  years  when 
he  joined  the  Confederacy.  A  whole  long  lifetime. 

Americans  are  the  most  patriotic  people  in  the  world, 
for  theirs  is  a  sort  of  double-barrelled  patriotism,  first 
the  love  of  their  State,  of  which  they  are  inordinately 
proud,  and  in  no  lesser  degree  the  love  of  the  United 
States.  To  fold  a  flag  and  put  it  out  of  sight  under 
which  a  man  has  served  for  fifty  years,  must  have  been 
a  moment  of  supreme  tragedy.  The  pain  could  be  no 
less  intense  in  divorcing  an  old  wife. 

I  knew  an  English  couple  who  separated  after  fifty 
years  of  married  happiness  and  the  quarrel,  alas,  arose 
out  of  a  book.  The  man  in  his  old  age,  was  deeply 
interested  in  writing  his  experiences  of  travel  by  land 
and  sea.  The  lady,  who  had  always  found  him  an 
exemplary  husband  and,  that  rare  individual, — a  man 
willing  to  put  aside  his  desires  to  please  his  wife,  asked 
him  one  day  to  come  for  a  drive.  He  refused,  saying 
he  was  busy  writing  his  book.  She  told  him  with 
cruel  frankness  that  he  would  never  find  either  pub- 
lishers or  readers.  When  she  came  back  from  her 
drive  he  was  gone,  never  to  return, — and  thus  do  separ- 
ations and  tragedies  of  life  grow  out  of  trifles  light 
as  air. 


1 68  My  Beloved  South 

There  will  be  no  more  changes  for  beautiful  Bonaven- 
ture,  for  it  is  now  a  sweet  and  peaceful,  quiet  resting- 
place  for  the  dead,  and  the  Tatnalls,  after  a  life's 
feverish  struggle  can  once  more  go  home.  Mrs. 
Lester  pointed  out  as  we  passed  it  a  handsome  house, 
very  interesting  to  me  with  my  love  and  admiration 
of  Thackeray,  for  it  is  said  that  he  wrote  the  greater 
part  of  The  Virginians  there  while  visiting  Andrew 
Low,  the  Englishman  who  built  it. 

How  Thackeray  was  entertained  in  America !  Every- 
thing this  bounteous  land  produces — fish,  flesh,  fowl, 
vegetables  and  fruit — were  served  to  him  in  lavish 
abundance  by  proud  but  anxious  hostesses.  He  after- 
wards said  that  at  every  American  table  he  was  first 
served  with  "grilled  hostess."  The  poor  ladies  at  the 
head  of  their  tables,  fiery  red,  anxious  and  hot,  had 
evidently  been  until  the  last  moment  occupied  in 
superintending  some  special  dish! 

There  was  an  ancient  fashion  in  South  Carolina  and 
Georgia  of  serving  an  enormous  turkey  which,  like  a 
Chinese  box,  contained  one  after  the  other  about  six 
other  birds,  until  it  finished  with  a  rice  bird,  small  and 
delicate  enough  for  even  the  little  bones  to  be  edible. 
The  juices  of  all  the  different  birds,  basted  in  fresh 
butter,  were  supposed  to  be  of  unique  and  marvellous 
flavour.  Probably  Mr.  Thackeray  ate  of  this  gastro- 
nomic complexity  on  more  than  one  occasion. 

Mrs.  Clay,  in  A  Belle  of  the  Fifties,  says:  "  Mr.  Thack- 
eray's lecture  and  poetry  were  a  red-letter  occasion, 
and  the  simplicity  of  that  great  man  of  letters,  as  he 
recited  Lord  Lovel  and  Barbara  Allen,  was  long  after- 
wards a  criterion  by  which  others  were  judged."  And 
in  that  sprightly  and  human  book,  A  Diary  from  Dixie, 
Mrs.  Chesnut  writes: 


A  Wakeful  Night  169 

Letter  from  home  carried  Mr.  Chesnut  to  Charleston 
to-day.  Thackeray  is  dead.  I  stumbled  upon  Vanity 
Fair  myself.  I  had  never  heard  of  Thackeray  before.  I 
think  it  was  in  1850,  I  know  I  had  been  ill  at  the  New  York 
hotel,  and  when  left  alone  I  slipped  downstairs  and  into  a 
bookstore  that  I  had  noticed  under  the  hotel  for  something 
to  read.  They  gave  me  the  first  half  of  Pendennis.  I  can 
recall  now  the  very  kind  of  paper  it  was  printed  on,  and 
the  illustrations  as  they  took  effect  upon  me,  and  yet  when 
I  raved  over  it  and  was  wild  for  the  other  half,  there  were 
people  who  said  it  was  slow." 

Even  to-day  there  are  great  Thackeray  lovers  in 
America.  When  Major  Judson,  that  brilliant  officer  of 
the  Engineer  Corps,  was — luckily  for  the  American 
army — ordered  to  the  East  to  study  the  methods  of 
fighting  during  the  Russo-Japanese  War,  he  carried 
with  him  only  two  books,  one  of  them  being  Vanity 
Fair.  On  a  roof  garden  in  Washington  one  blazing  night 
this  last  memorable  summer,  he  went  through  a  highly 
creditable  examination  on  that  wonderful  book,  which 
is  as  familiar  to  me  as  Pinkie  and  the  Fairies. 

After  a  day  of  activity  and  motoring  in  Savannah, 
any  normal  human  being  would  have  slept,  but  it  was 
my  off  night  and  if  sleep  comes  to  me  at  all  every  other 
night,  it  is  as  much  as  I  can  hope  for.  Fortunately  I 
discovered  before  I  went  to  bed  that  my  room  was  bare 
of  books  and  the  manager  at  the  office  lent  me  two 
volumes  which,  although  read  before,  interested  me 
until  seven  o'clock  next  morning.  One  of  these  was 
Mrs.  Chesnut 's  Diary  from  Dixie,  and  contained  this 
paragraph  about  the  mother  of  my  Nancy  who  had  died 
in  New  York; 

CAMDEN,  S.  C.,  August  2nd,  1865. 
Mary  Kirkland  has  had  experience  with  the  Yankees. 


170  My  Beloved  South 

She  has  been  pronounced  the  most  beautiful  woman  on  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic  and  has  been  spoiled  accordingly  in  all 
society.  When  the  Yankees  came,  Monroe,  their  negro 
manservant,  told  her  to  stand  up  and  hold  two  of  her 
children  in  her  arms,  with  the  other  two  pressed  close  against 
her  knees.  Mammy  Selina  and  Lizzie  stood  grimly  on 
each  side  of  their  young  missis  and  her  children,  while  for 
four  mortal  hours  the  soldiers  searched  through  the  rooms 
of  the  house.  Sometimes  Mary  and  her  children  were 
roughly  jostled  against  the  wall,  but  Mammy  and  Lizzie 
were  staunch  supporters.  The  Yankee  soldiers  taunted  the 
negro  women  for  their  foolishness  in  standing  by  their  cruel 
slave-owner,  and  taunted  Mary  for  being  glad  of  the  protec- 
tion of  a  poor  ill-used  slave.  Monroe,  meanwhile,  had  one 
leg  bandaged  and  pretended  to  be  lame,  so  that  he  might 
not  be  enlisted  as  a  soldier,  and  kept  making  pathetic 
appeals  to  Mary.  "  Don't  answer  them  back,  Miss  Mary, " 
said  he,  "let  'em  say  what  dey  want  to;  don't  answer  em 
back,  don't  gib  em  any  chance  to  say  you  were  impudent 
to  em." 

How  dramatically  my  poor  friend  Nancy  began  her 
life,  although  she  was  then  only  a  baby  in  arms. 

A  further  extract  from  Mrs.  Chesnut's  diary  relates 
two  incidents,  one  tragic  the  other  amusing. 

July  I3th,  1863. 

Halcott  Green  came  to  see  us.  Bragg  is  a  stern  disciplin- 
arian according  to  Halcott,  and  he  did  not  in  the  least 
understand  citizen  soldiers.  In  the  retreat  from  Shiloh  he 
ordered  that  not  a  gun  should  be  fired.  A  soldier  shot  a 
chicken  and  then  the  soldier  was  shot.  "For  a  chicken!" 
said  Halcott,  "A  Confederate  soldier  for  a  chicken!" 

Mrs.  McCord  says  that  a  nurse  who  is  a  beauty  had 
better  leave  her  beauty  with  her  cloak  and  hat  at  the  door. 
One  lovely  nurse  said  to  a  soldier  whose  wounds  could  not 
have  been  dangerous  "Well,  my  good  soul,  what  can  I  do 


A  Wakeful  Night  171 

for  you?"  "Kiss  me, "  said  he.  Mrs.  McCord  was  furious 
at  the  woman  for  telling  it,  for  it  brought  her  hospital  into 
disrepute,  and  very  properly. 

Frederic  Norton,  the  frankest  of  humourists,  once 
said  to  me :  "  The  difference  between  a  man  and  a  woman 
is  this — a  woman  only  wants  to  kiss  the  man  she  loves; 
a  man  will  kiss  any  woman  who  will  let  him — tall, 
short,  fair,  dark,  fat,  thin,  grave  or  gay."  Some  men 
I  am  sure  are  not  quite  so  universally  affectionate,  but 
"out  of  evil  cometh  good;"  the  request  for  a  kiss  made 
to  a  friend  of  mine  completely  reconciled  her  to  the 
short-comings  of  her  husband. 

She  had  quarrelled  with  him  and  left  him,  and  her 
idea  had  been  to  take  her  broken  heart  to  the  stage, 
that  kind  refuge  for  so  many  troubled  souls.  She  had 
a  beautiful  voice  which  had  been  trained  with  extra- 
ordinary care  by  the  best  masters  in  France  and  Italy, 
and  she  carolled  like  a  veritable  canary.  Her  husband 
was  rich  and  she,  young,  pretty,  and  attractive,  had 
been  at  the  head  of  a  large  establishment  and  had  had 
not  only  the  protection  of  a  home,  but  of  a  man.  It 
was  a  very  different  position  from  that  of  a  woman 
alone  in  the  world,  who  generally  comes  to  know  that 
in  spite  of  the  boasted  chivalry  of  man,  she  will  meet 
one  at  least,  now  and  again,  ready  to  take  advantage 
of  her  defenceless  situation. 

My  friend  went  to  sing  for  a  fat,  bald,  old  impresario. 
He  sat  at  his  ease  on  a  sofa  with  arms  outstretched, 
while  she  hurriedly  unfastened  her  gloves,  played  the 
introduction  to  Proch's  variations,  and  began  to  sing. 
She  knew  she  was  in  good  voice  and  she  displayed  all 
her  vocal  pyrotechnics  with  great  effect.  Roulades, 
the  chromatic  scale,  trills,  all  came  like  smooth  silver 


172  My  Beloved  South 

that  morning.  She  improvised  a  little,  her  voice 
mounting  higher  and  higher,  and  finished  with  a  bird- 
like  D  sharp.  Then  she  turned  to  the  quiet  gentleman, 
expecting  that  he  would  at  least  say,  "Your  voice  has 
been  admirably  trained."  But  what  he  did  say  was, 
"Come  and  kiss  me!"  He  did  n't  even  offer  to  get  up 
and  go  to  her,  so  sure  was  he  of  his  power.  There  he 
sat,  old,  fat,  common,  vulgar,  calmly  asking  such  a 
favour  as  a  matter  of  course.  It  really  was  an  intensely 
comical  situation,  but  my  friend  had  no  sense  of  humour. 
"Think  of  the  humiliation,"  she  said;  "I  almost  die  at 
the  memory." 

I  sent  for  her  husband.  Luckily  he  had  no  sense 
of  humour  either.  He  wanted  at  once  to  thrash  the 
impresario  for  insulting  his  wife.  "He  would  show 
him,"  etc.,  etc.  I  suggested  that  if  his  wife  had  been 
in  her  own  home,  which  she  would  never  have  left 
except  for  his  vagaries,  the  kiss  would  not  have  been 
demanded,  and  a  sensible  reconciliation  followed. 

I  am  terribly  opposed  to  a  condemnation  based  upon 
circumstantial  evidence.  What  a  commentary  upon 
it  is  this  other  little  story,  taken  from  A  Diary  in  Dixie: 

April  22nd,  1861. 

Arranging  my  photograph  book.  On  the  first  page 
Colonel  Watts.  And  here  goes  a  sketch  of  his  life :  Beau- 
fort Watts,  bluest  blood,  gentleman  to  the  tips  of  his 
fingers,  chivalry  incarnate,  he  was  placed  in  charge  of  a 
large  amount  of  money  and  bank  bills.  The  money  be- 
longed to  the  State  and  he  was  on  the  way  to  deposit  it. 
When  he  went  to  bed  at  night  he  placed  the  roll  on  a  table 
at  his  bedside,  locked  himself  in,  and  slept  soundly.  The 
next  morning  the  money  was  gone.  Well,  all  who  knew  him 
believed  him  innocent.  Of  course  he  searched  and  they 
searched,  but  to  no  purpose — the  money  was  gone.  It 


A  Diary  of  Dixie  173 

was  a  damaging  story  and  a  cloud  rested  upon  him.  Years 
after,  the  house  in  which  he  had  taken  that  disastrous  sleep 
was  pulled  down.  In  the  wall  behind  the  wainscot  was 
found  his  pile  of  money.  How  the  rats  got  it  through  so 
narrow  a  crack  was  most  mysterious.  Suppose  that  house 
had  been  burned,  or  the  rats  had  gnawed  up  the  bills  past 
recognition.  People  in  power  understood  how  that  proud 
man  had  suffered  those  many  years  in  silence  when  men 
looked  askance  at  him.  The  country  tried  to  repair  the 
work  of  blasting  the  man's  character.  He  was  made 
Secretary  of  Legation  to  Russia,  and  was  afterwards  our 
Consul  at  Santa  Fe  de  Bogota.  When  he  was  too  old  to 
wander  far  afield  they  made  him  Secretary  to  all  the  Gov- 
ernors of  South  Carolina  in  regular  succession. 

Yet  another  extract  from  the  diary : 

CAMDEN,  S.  C.,  Nov.  5th,  1863. 

Mattie  Reedy  (I  knew  her  as  a  handsome  girl  in  Washing- 
ton several  years  ago)  got  tired  of  hearing  Federals  abusing 
John  Morgan.  One  day  they  were  worse  than  ever  in  their 
abuse  and  she  grew  restive.  By  way  of  putting  a  mark 
against  the  name  of  so  rude  a  girl  the  Yankee  officer  said, 
"What  is  your  name?"  "Write,  Mattie  Reedy  now,  but 
by  the  grace  of  God,  I  hope  one  day  to  call  myself  the  wife 
of  John  Morgan."  She  did  not  know  Morgan,  but  he 
eventually  heard  the  story — a  good  joke  it  was  said  to  be. 
But  he  made  it  a  point  to  find  her  out ;  and  as  she  was  as 
pretty  as  she  was  patriotic,  by  the  grace  of  God  she  is  now 
Mrs.  Morgan!  These  timid  Southern  women  under  the 
guns  can  be  brave  enough. 

The  Fates  evidently  liked  Mattie  Reedy.  They 
gave  her  what  she  wanted,  and  had  no  such  surprise 
in  store  for  her  as  they  had  for  an  American  girl  who 
when  travelling  by  carriage  in  Italy  with  her  mother 
stopped  at  a  wretched,  muddy,  damp,  dirty  little 
village  for  supper.  It  was  late,  the  horses  were  tired, 


174  My  Beloved  South 

the  idea  had  been  to  spend  the  night  there,  but  her 
sensibilities  were  so  offended  that  she  urged  her  mother 
to  try  the  next  little  township,  which  she  agreed  un- 
willingly enough  to  do.  In  Rome,  the  following  winter, 
the  girl  met  an  Italian  who  lived  in  a  tumble-down 
villa  in  that  same  abhorred  village.  She  married  him. 
It  was  a  love  match  and  they  were  poor,  so  she  went 
back  to  the  shabby  villa  and  lived  in  the  impossible 
hamlet  without  leaving  it  for  seven  years. 

How  Fate  disciplines  us  with  mocking  laughter  and 
quaint  surprises..  "I  cannot  bear  it,"  "I  would  die 
with  that,"  and  straightway,  both  inflictions  are  sent 
to  us.  She  had  a  rod  in  pickle  for  Frances  Anne  Kemble 
when  her  marriage  with  Pierce  Butler  was  ordained. 
He  was  a  handsome,  not  too  brilliant  American,  whose 
wealth  all  came  from  his  plantations  in  Georgia. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  assimilative  blood  of  her 
French  grandfather  in  this  admirable  lady.  She  was 
a  straightforward,  respectable  British  matron,  though 
she  lived  in  both  Pennsylvania  and  Georgia;  and  in 
spite  of  the  appreciation  and  fortune  she  received  when 
she  gave  her  Shakespearean  readings  throughout  the 
country,  she  disliked  America  cordially,  and  had  little 
good  to  say  of  it.  When  she  wielded  that  conscientious 
and  prolific  pen  of  hers,  it  has  always  the  heavy  touch 
of  the  tragedian,  and  never  by  any  chance  the  lighter 
one  of  the  comedian. 

I  was  fond  of  a  certain  little  old-fashioned  poem 
which  she  gives  in  the  records  of  her  girlhood,  a  little 
song  called  the  Spirit  of  Morn. 

Now  on  their  couch  of  rest 
Mortals  are  sleeping 
While  in  dark,  dewy  vest, 


A  Diary  of  Dixie  175 

Flowerets  are  weeping. 
Ere  the  last  star  of  night 
Fades  in  the  fountain, 
My  finger  of  rosy  light 
Touches  the  mountain. 

Far  on  his  filmy  wing 
Twilight  is  wending, 
Shadows  encompassing 
Terrors  attending: 
While  my  foot's  fiery  print, 
Up  my  path  showing, 
Gleams  with  celestial  tint, 
Brilliantly  glowing. 

Now  from  my  pinions  fair 

Freshness  is  streaming, 

And  from  my  yellow  hair 

Glories  are  gleaming. 

Nature  with  pure  delight 

Hails  my  returning, 

And  Sol,  from  his  chamber  bright, 

Crowns  the  young  morning. 

And  there  was  a  time  when  she  seemed  to  me  the 
sweetest  poet  in  the  world.  It  was  in  my  extreme 
youth  at  (to  be  exactly  accurate)  fifteen  and  a  half, 
after  my  parting  from  a  young  artillery  lieutenant,  a 
brand  new  graduate  of  West  Point,  all  brightest  of 
brass  buttons,  bluest  of  eyes  and  untiringest  of  dancers. 
When  my  first  love  letter  from  him  followed  me  to 
Texas  he  quoted  her  poem  of  Absence: 

What  shall  I  do  with  all  the  days  and  hours 
That  must  be  counted  ere  I  see  thy  face? 
How  shall  I  charm  the  interval  that  lowers 
Between  this  time  and  that  sweet  hour  of  grace? 


176  My  Beloved  South 

Shall  I  in  slumber  steep  each  weary  sense, 
Weary  with  longing? — shall  I  flee  away 
Into  past  days,  and  with  some  fond  pretence 
Cheat  myself  to  forget  the  present  day? 

Oh !  how,  or  by  what  means,  may  I  contrive 
To  bring  the  hour  that  brings  thee  back  more  near? 
How  may  I  teach  my  drooping  hope  to  live 
Until  that  blessed  time,  and  thou  art  here? 

I  will  tell  thee;  for  thy  sake,  I  will  lay  hold 
Of  all  good  aims,  and  consecrate  to  thee 
In  worthy  deeds,  each  moment  that  is  told 
While  thou,  beloved  one!  art  far  from  me. 

I  will  this  dreary  blank  of  absence  make 
A  noble  task-time,  and  will  therein  strive 
To  follow  excellence,  and  to  o'ertake 
More  good  than  I  have  won,  since  yet  I  live. 

So  may  this  doomed  time  build  up  in  me 
A  thousand  graces  which  shall  thus  be  thine; 
So  may  my  love  and  longing  hallowed  be, 
And  thy  dear  thought  an  influence  divine. 

And  he  ended  the  letter  by  imploring  me  to  return 
to  Washington  and  end  as  soon  as  possible  the  "doomed 
time"  of  our  separation.  But  long  before  this  dreary 
blank  of  absence  was  over  there  was  a  curly-haired 
officer  of  the  Engineers,  and  a  fair  Cavalryman  looming 
in  the  horizon,  also  the  Captain  of  Engineers  had  the 
advantage  of  writing  original  and  very  eulogistic 
poetry,  so  my  taste  for  Frances  Anne  as  a  poet  soon 
suffered  an  eclipse. 

No  one  in  Savannah  remembered  that  Frances 
Kemble  had  lived  both  at  St.  Simeon's  and  in  Butler's 


A  Diary  of  Dixie  179 

We  talked  about  taking  the  trolley  to  the  beautiful 
old  plantation  of  "The  Hermitage,"  where  the  long 
row  of  slave  quarters  are  still  to  be  seen.  But  Bee 
said  that  we  really  ought  to  go  down  first  to  the  wharf 
and  see  the  cotton.  "Don't  forget,"  she  said,  "that 
Savannah  is  the  largest  cotton  port  on  the  Atlantic  and 
the  third  largest  lumber  port  in  the  world." 

The  wharf  proved  a  most  busy  and  intensely  inter- 
esting place,  and  Savannah  will  find  it  an  immense 
advantage  to  be  the  nearest  port  to  the  Panama  Canal, 
when  that  work  of  genius  is  completed. 

The  morning  passed  all  too  quickly  and  in  the  after- 
noon Judge  Speer,  that  courtly  and  accomplished 
gentleman,  came  with  his  wife  to  call  upon  us.  He 
brought  me  a  book  of  Sketches  of  Prominent  Men  of 
America  to  read  in  the  train  and  in  the  evening  Bee 
and  I  separated. 

She  went  back  to  Washington  and  her  Art  School, 
and  I  alas,  started  alone  for  New  Orleans. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  MULES   OF   GEORGIA 

"Take  out  yo'  mule,  boys, 
Hang  up  yo'  gear; 
Daytime  is  gone,  boys, 
Night-time  is  here. " 

A  LTHOUGH  fine  gentlemen  in  Virginia  refused  as 
/~\  late  as  1820  to  breed  the  mule,  he  has  become 
since  that  date  almost  as  much  of  an  institution  in  the 
South  as  the  palm  leaf  fan. 

After  the  war,  in  1865,  a  cousin  of  mine  who  had 
gallantly  served  his  turn  in  the  Confederate  army  re- 
turned to  his  home  in  Georgia.  He  had  left  a  pretty 
little  white  house  of  two  storeys,  with  balconies  stretch- 
ing across  the  front,  overgrown  with  flowering  vines. 
At  the  rear  there  was  a  neat  stable,  a  smoke-house,  a 
wash-house  by  the  never-failing  old  spring,  a  big  barn 
which  held  enough  hay  to  feed  the  cattle  for  the  winter, 
and  all  the  usual  comfortable  outhouses  of  a  Southern 
plantation.  His  place  lay  directly  in  the  path  of 
Sherman's  march  to  the  sea.  He  returned  in  his 
ragged  grey  clothes,  with  a  tarnished  star  on  his  collar, 
and  the  bridle  of  a  big  gaunt  mule  over  his  arm,  to  find 
even  the  land  blackened  by  fire.  The  only  evidence 
of  former  habitation  was  a  handful  of  salt  under  one 
of  the  charred  logs  of  the  smoke-house. 

A  few  negroes  agreed  to  work  on  the  chance  of  a  cotton 

1 80 


The  Mules  of  Georgia  181 

crop.  He  then  cut  down  from  the  primeval  forest  near 
by  enough  logs  to  make  a  rude  cabin,  and  to  this  home 
he  brought  his  wife  and  three  little  children  to  begin 
life  over  again.  Their  sole  and  only  dependence  was 
Satan,  a  mule  who  in  the  first  place  had  inherited  from 
his  mother  a  defiant,  reckless,  suspicious  mind,  and, 
in  the  second,  had  begun  life  under  the  management 
of  a  rather  cruel  negro.  Consequently,  his  disposition 
was  early  made  sour,  resentful,  and  pessimistic. 

Almost  in  his  colthood  the  war  came  on,  and  he 
changed  the  negro  for  another  master  and  the  strenuous 
life  of  a  hard- worked  Union  mule.  His  indifference 
to  calamity  caused  him  always  to  place  himself  in  the 
front  of  the  battle,  and  he  was  very  soon  shot  in  one 
of  his  hind  legs.  With  his  excellent  constitution,  he 
rapidly  recovered,  and  was  later  captured  by  the  Con- 
federate artillery.  With  them  he  served  until  the  end 
of  the  war,  his  disposition  getting  daily  more  cranky, 
and  his  views  of  life  more  saturnine.  Every  time  he 
hauled  a  heavy  gun  it  always  gave  his  lame  leg  a  recur- 
rent pain.  He  had  no  faith  in  the  goodness  of  man, 
either  white  or  black.  He  had  no  affection  for  any 
human  being  and  was  filled  with  bitterness  and  cunning. 
If  a  horse  or  a  mule  stood  too  near  him  he  invariably 
left  the  mark  of  either  his  teeth  or  his  hoofs  somewhere 
about  the  unfortunate  animal,  and  though  of  enormous 
size,  he  had  the  agility  of  a  cat  in  his  movements. 

More  than  one  negro  had  to  be  taken  to  the  hospital 
with  literally  a  terrible  sinking  of  the  stomach  after  one 
of  the  mule's  hind  feet  had  been  planted  there  violently 
and  unexpectedly.  His  feet,  indeed,  as  he  had  no 
hands,  were  against  every  man,  and  he  felt  that  every 
man  was  against  him.  Anything  more  resentful,  more 
hopeless  or  full  of  scorn  and  wickedness  than  Satan 


1 82  My  Beloved  South 

could  not  be  found  in  the  world.  Even  his  splendid 
strength  and  robust  health  never  lifted  the  black  clouds 
that  environed  his  sad  mule  estate.  He  rarely  lifted 
his  voice,  but  when  he  did  his  "heehaw"  was  full  of 
satanic  rage. 

This  was  the  capital  that  my  cousin  brought  home 
from  the  war. 

One  of  the  negroes,  whose  business  it  was  to  load  the 
waggon  with  logs  for  Satan  to  haul  from  the  woods  to 
the  former  site  of  the  house,  said,  "Dat  mule  suttenly 
am  got  de  right  name.  Dere  could  n't  a  been  one  found 
better  suited  to  him,  an'  he  look  like  it  too.  Dere 
ain't  no  time  when  he  can't  show  de  white  ob  his  eye, 
an'  he  jes'  curl  up  his  lip  at  you  and  frof  at  de  mouf  if 
you  speak  to  him,  like  his  whole  soul  wuz  full  ob  hate. 
He  suttenly  is  a  scornful  mule.  Sometimes  he  eben 
scorns  de  fodder,  but  I  will  say  he  can  do  'bout  three 
times  de  work  of  an'  ordinary  mule,  an'  dere  's  one 
thing  to  be  said  'bout  him,  he  will  work.  It  seem  like 
to  me  he  got  some  secret  sorrow,  an'  he  des  tries  to 
fergit  it  by  his  job,  'cause  if  he  took  it  into  his  head  not 
to  work,  it  would  be  des  like  gettin'  one  of  dese  here 
ellifants  to  move." 

And  early  and  late  Satan  and  the  Major  were  up 
and  stirring — three  o'clock  in  the  morning  often  found 
them  ploughing.  "The  Lord  tempers  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lamb" — sometimes.  There  certainly  never  was 
such  a  crop  as  those  first  years  of  cotton  and  corn. 
Every  acre  yielded  two  bales,  and  the  silky  gold  of 
the  myriads  of  corn  tassels  promised  a  rich  harvest 
for  the  autumn. 

A  little  smoke-house  had  been  built,  and  the  Major 
had  bought  several  pigs  that  were  being  fattened  for 
the  winter's  hams  and  bacon.  They  were  allowed  to 


The  Mules  of  Georgia  183 

run  at  large,  and  had  made  a  deep  crescent-shaped  hole 
under  the  logs  at  the  back  of  the  house.  One  joyous 
day  for  Satan  the  Major  was  obliged  to  go  to  Atlanta 
and  he  was  given  a  holiday.  Such  a  thing  had  not 
happened  to  him  since  he  ran  by  the  side  of  his  mammy, 
and  he  became  quite  active  and  gay.  He  ran  round 
the  fields  kicking  his  heels  in  the  air,  and  finally  lay 
down  to  take  a  good  wallow,  but  unfortunately  he 
stuck  his  great  head  in  the  hollow  place  under  the 
smoke-house  and  had  n't  enough  horse  sense,  being  a 
mule,  to  get  it  out  again.  There  he  lay  screaming  and 
kicking  and  floundering  about,  with  his  legs  flying  round 
like  the  arms  of  a  windmill.  No  negro  dared  to  go 
near  those  horrible  heels  that  were  ready  to  destroy 
anything  within  range. 

Jenny  Lilly,  the  Major's  wife,  attracted  by  the  noise, 
came  out  of  the  house  and  her  imagination  at  once 
projected  the  consequences  of  this  scene.  It  meant 
future  desolation — the  mule  would  die,  for  there  was 
no  way  of  extricating  him,  the  splendid  cotton  crop 
and  all  those  plumes  of  corn  tassels  would  mean  nothing. 
How  could  they  get  the  bales  of  cotton  to  Atlanta? 
How  were  the  bushels  of  corn  to  be  hauled  to  the  rail- 
road? And  success  seemed  so  near — even  the  new 
frame  house  was  just  in  sight.  She  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands  and  cried  like  a  child.  What  could  be 
done? 

Then  an  idea  occurred  to  her.  She  went  into  the 
smoke-house  and,  regardless  of  the  curling  lips  and  wild 
eyes  of  the  mule,  she  seized  his  head  and  with  super- 
human strength  pushed  it  until  it  just  escaped  the  logs. 
Satan  was  free!  Her  arms  were  covered  with  blood 
and  she  was  almost  in  a  fainting  condition.  As  for 
Satan,  one  of  the  negroes  wanted  to  shoot  him  at  once 


1 84  My  Beloved  South 

and  put  him  out  of  his  agony.  The  whole  side  of  his 
long  head  was  torn  and  bleeding;  the  bare  flesh  could 
be  seen;  one  eye,  apparently,  was  blind,  and  there 
he  stood,  a  horribly  skinned,  maimed,  and  dangerous 
creature. 

Jenny's  greatest  attraction  was  her  soft,  pretty, 
caressing  voice.  She  fearlessly  went  quite  near  the 
poor  suffering  creature,  and  began  to  condole  with  him, 
"Oh  honey,"  she  said,  "oh  honey,  don't  die  and  ruin 
us."  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  heard  that 
word  and  it  sounded  very  sweet  to  his  ears.  "Honey," 
how  different  from  "damned  beast."  But  what  was 
to  be  done?  One  negro  had  already  gone  to  the  house 
and  loaded  a  pistol.  "Miss  Jinny,"  he  said,  "dere 
ain't  no  use  in  de  worl'  tryin'  to  do  nothin'  wid  dat 
mule,  he  des  boun'  to  die.  De  wedder  is  so  hot,  his  head 
will  mortify  in  a  day.  Dere  ain't  no  more  use  in  tryin' 
to  sabe  him,  den  dere  would  be,  to  'spect  a  cool  stream 
ob  water  to  come  out  ob  dis  here  dry  rock." 

But  a  woman  is  usually  dauntless  and  resourceful 
in  the  interest  of  the  man  she  loves.  Miss  Jinny 
pictured  the  Major  coming  home  in  his  old  grey  soldier 
clothes — he  still  wore  his  uniform  minus  the  star  and 
epaulets — and  the  death  of  Satan  would  be  a  too  cruel 
and  horrible  blow  to  him.  Who  would  break  the  news? 
And  something  had  touched  Satan;  some  chord  in  his 
memory  had  been  awakened;  perhaps  as  a  colt  a  little 
darkey  had  given  him  a  bit  of  bread  and  honey.  Now, 
with  his  great  head  sore  and  bleeding  he  was  standing 
quite  still,  tortured  but  evidently  thinking. 

Miss  Jinny  went  fearlessly  up  to  him,  took  him  by 
the  mane,  and  led  him  to  the  little  log  house.  There 
was  a  long  window  opening  into  the  kitchen.  She 
placed  him  near  it  and  when  she  went  in  she  took  a  pone 


The  Mules  of  Georgia  185 

of  corn  bread,  recklessly  covered  it  with  butter,  and 
held  it  out  to  Satan.  He  put  his  huge  head  through 
the  window,  and  bit  by  bit  she  fed  him.  Then  she 
gave  him  a  drink  of  cold  water.  By  this  time  the  flies 
had  begun  to  settle  on  the  bare  flesh.  Miss  Jinny  then 
filled  a  bucket  with  fresh  water  and  sponged  the  wound 
gently,  oh  so  gently,  scraped  an  old  linen  sheet  into  a 
square  of  lint,  put  it  all  over  the  raw  flesh,  made  an 
enormous  linseed  poultice  and  laid  it  comfortingly 
over  the  lint.  Strange  to  say,  Satan  stood  perfectly 
still  while  the  poultice,  quite  a  yard  long  and  three 
quarters  of  a  yard  wide,  was  gently  but  firmly  bound 
around  his  big  head. 

For  two  weeks  or  more  Miss  Jinny  was  up  day  and 
night,  stirring  linseed  and  poulticing  that  great,  black, 
stubborn  head.  Never  during  that  time  did  he  attempt 
to  bite  her,  nor  was  he  in  any  way  vicious.  At  the  end 
of  the  fortnight  he  gave  the  first  instance  of  his  refor- 
mation; he  put  his  black  nose  on  her  hand  and  kept  it 
there  for  quite  a  minute.  This  was  in  appreciation  of 
a  beautiful  sort  of  mule  baby  talk,  that  had  been  evolved 
for  his  condition.  He  could  not  at  first  believe  that 
any  human  being  had  such  a  sweet  voice  and  such  a 
sweet  nature,  and  so  much  confidence  in  mules. 
When  he  heard,  "Hold  still  honey,  poor  good  honey, 
Miss  Jinny  would  n't  hurt  her  old  mule  for  all  the 
world,"  he  felt  his  life-long  cynicism  flowing  away  like 
honey.  At  last  the  climax  was  reached  when  the  nine 
months  old  baby  was  lifted  up,  and  put  his  soft  arms 
around  Satan's  neck,  bubbled,  cooed,  kissed  the  white 
star  on  his  forehead,  and  laughed  and  tried  to  poke 
his_finger  in  Satan's  eye.  There  was  only  one  visible, 
for  the  poultices  were  still  over  the  other. 

He  was  a  changed  mule;  all  his  black  bitter  moods 


1 86  My  Beloved  South 

had  softened,  his  faith  in  human  nature  was  awak- 
ened, his  love  of  mankind  was  fast  being  developed. 
At  any  rate  there  was  one  woman,  slim  and  tall,  with 
a  sweet  anxious  face,  gentian-blue  eyes  and  hands  never 
idle,  who  worked  from  daylight  until  dark,  for  whom 
Satan  could  really  have  died.  When  his  convalescence 
was  over  and  he  began  to  work  again  and  was  put  back 
into  the  plough,  he  kept  one  weather  eye  on  that  magic 
window,  outside  of  which  he  had  stood  for  so  many  hot 
and  feverish  days,  and  where  he  had  found  gentle 
hands,  and  heard  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  words  of 
sympathy  and  tender  love. 

The  moment  the  plough  stopped  he  turned,  gently 
trotted  to  the  kitchen,  put  his  huge  head  in  the  window, 
and  patiently  waited  for  his  Miss  Jinny.  Every  night 
he  had  his  little  pone  of  corn  bread  and  butter  or  an 
autumn  apple  or  some  little  delicacy.  He  even  pre- 
tended to  have  a  taste  for  bananas,  notwithstanding  he 
considered  them  a  most  effeminate  fruit,  without  the 
least  flavour,  but  then  Miss  Jinny  and  the  children  ate 
them,  that  was  enough.  Whatever  they  offered  him, 
like  Adam  with  the  apple,  "he  did  eat." 

The  next  year  when  the  second  crop  came,  there  was 
enough  money  to  buy  a  basket  phaeton.  Satan  actu- 
ally allowed  Miss  Jinny  to  harness  him  to  it,  although 
he  found  it  a  most  trivial  affair,  and  drive  to  the  near- 
est little  town,  about  three  miles  distant  and  back 
again. 

After  his  recovery  he  had  a  great  deal  more  white 
hair  than  the  star  on  his  forehead,  as  it  had  grown  in 
patches  of  black  and  white  all  over  his  long  head. 
With  his  gay  harness  and  jingling  bells,  everyone 
stopped  to  look  at  him,  but  Miss  Jinny  did  n't  mind, 
for  she  said  that  after  the  Major  and  her  children, 


The  Mules  of  Georgia  187 

Satan  was  really  first  in  her  affections.  She  petted 
him,  called  him  "Satan-honey,"  "Satan-angel,"  and  to 
the  day  of  his  death  he  was  allowed  to  stand  with  his 
head  in  the  kitchen,  while  he  ate  his  evening  meal. 

His  heart  had  been  unearthed,  his  affections  had  been 
developed,  and  this  had  made  him  the  gracious  and 
tolerant  mule  that  he  had  become.  He  was  even 
amiable  towards  the  darkies.  The  ploughman  said, 
"I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Miss  Jinny's  bin  dat  mule's 
salvation.  He  's  bin  on  de  mourners'  bench  shoutin' 
an'  gone  an'  got  religion.  'Tain't  nothin'  else  could  a 
done  it.  Whenever  he  see  her  he  do  jes'  like  de  glory 
ob  God  done  shine  on  him.  Maybe  mules  is  got  souls ; 
I  tell  you  I  b'lieve  dis  one  is,  he  's  gone  sho'  nuff  from 
de  sinner  to  de  saint.  Why  you  can  even  rely  on  him, 
an'  dat  ain't  natchul  for  no  mule.  Eve'y  day  I  watches 
him,  spectin'  a  outbreak,  but  it  ain't  come  yit.  Maybe 
it  never  will.  An'  his  eye  is  des  as  sof  as  a  dove." 

When  they  could  afford  a  cook  and  the  negro  woman 
first  came,  Satan  showed  some  of  the  old  spirit  and 
gave  the  tip  of  her  ear  one  small  nip.  But  perhaps  it 
was  just  as  well,  as  she  was  the  greatest  "borrower" 
in  the  neighbourhood,  and  the  Major  and  Miss  Jinny, 
at  that  time  could  not  afford  to  have  little  sacks  of 
coffee,  and  sugar  and  flour  and  jugs  of  molasses  carried 
away.  Satan  had  sound  instincts  after  all;  he  brayed 
triumphantly  and  kicked  up  his  legs  with  joy  when 
the  cook  left,  and  Miss  Jinny  again  handed  him  his 
corn  bread. 

He  lived  to  be  very  old,  his  teeth  were  all  worn  away, 
and  he  could  no  longer  chew.  Miss  Jinny  with  her 
own  hands  made  him  delicious  corn  mashes ;  the  children 
wove  daisy  chains  for  his  neck,  and  basking  in  consider- 
ation and  love,  he  forgot  all  the  sorrows  of  his  youth 


1 88  My  Beloved  South 

in  the  happiness  of  his  old  age  (oh,  thrice  happy  mule) ! 
and  met  a  gentle  death  with  calmness  and  fortitude. 
The  last  words  he  heard  were  Miss  Jinny's  blessed  ones 
of  long  ago,  "Oh,  honey,  don't  die."  And  he  would 
have  lived  for  her  if  he  could,  but  he  was  old  and  weak; 
his  time  had  come.  The  children,  big  boys  now, 
built  a  paling  fence  round  his  grave  and  cut  on  a  little 
block  of  limestone:  "Here  lies  Satan,  Miss  Jinny's  old 
Angel  Mule.  He  combined  all  the  virtues  of  a  mule 
and  a  horse.  His  family  loved  him.  August  1875." 
And  although  he  was  only  a  black  devil  of  an  outcast 
mule,  Love  never  worked  a  greater  miracle  than  when 
he  gave  Satan  a  gentle  trusting  heart. 

Last  summer  a  group  of  gentlemen  went  hunting  in 
Maine.  One  night  around  the  camp-fire  a  prize  was 
offered  to  the  man  who  could  tell  the  best  animal 
story.  That  delightful  lover  of  all  animal  nature, 
Thompson  Seton,  was  to  be  the  umpire,  and  the  prize 
was  a  set  of  his  delightful  books.  Dr.  Venning  of 
West  Virginia  won  it  with  the  following  story: 

A  retired  gentleman  jockey  [he  said],  living  near  Charles- 
ton, a  mighty  good  fellow  of  an  inventive  turn  of  mind,  had 
been  lucky  in  his  dealings  with  a  man  in  Saratoga  who  had 
won  several  races  with  Virginia  bred  horses.  One  day  going 
through  a  field  he  noticed  a  negro  ploughing  with  a  young, 
agile,  good  looking,  intelligent  black  mule  which,  when 
unhitched  from  the  plough,  instead  of  going  home  by  the 
road  with  the  other  mules,  leaped  a  six  foot  fence  with  a 
"nee"  and  with  an  exultant  "haw"  alighted  on  the  other 
side,  nimbly  trotted  over  the  field,  with  a  regular  profes- 
sional gait,  took  another  fence,  and  was  eating  his  oats, 
almost  before  the  other  mules  had  started  by  the  regular 
road.  The  gentleman  jockey  turned  to  the  ploughman  and 
said,  "  Don't  put  that  mule  in  the  plough  again;  I  see  glory 


The  Mules  of  Georgia  189 

and  fame  awaiting  him  in  the  North."  He  then  sent  for  a 
veterinary  surgeon,  renowned  for  the  skill  with  which  he 
used  the  knife,  and  told  him  to  fashion  the  mule's  ears  and 
tail  according  to  the  pattern  of  a  thoroughbred  horse. 
This  was  done.  The  cuts  healed  quickly,  he  was  clipped 
and  curried  until  he  looked  like  a  piece  of  shining  satin, 
and  although  his  head  was  somewhat  long  and  his  nose 
rather  flat,  this  was  not  noticed  when  he  was  in  rapid 
motion,  leaping  into  the  air  like  a  deer,  and  taking  any  fence 
that  came. 

When  his  training  was  finished  the  man  from  New  York 
was  invited  to  come  down  and  inspect  the  wonderful 
jumper.  He  came,  and  the  mule,  untrue  to  the  traditions 
of  his  race,  behaved  not  with  contrariness,  but  quite  as  a 
thoroughbred  steeplechaser.  He  ran  like  a  steam  engine 
round  the  track,  and  a  five-barred  hurdle  seemed  to  him  a 
positive  joy.  The  Northern  sportsman,  tremendously  sur- 
prised said,  "He  's  fast,  but  there  's  something  queer  about 
him.  His  head  looks  to  me  very  bony;  and  is  n't  one  ear  a 
trifle  longer  than  the  other?"  The  Virginia  jockey  said, 
"My  dear  fellow,  you  're  not  running  his  head,  it  's  his 
legs  you  are  after.  Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  him?" 
"No,"  said  the  man,  "I  never  did."  So  he  agreed  to  pay 
ten  thousand  dollars  for  the  wonderful  steeplechase  horse, 
and  he  was  sent  on  a  special  train  to  Saratoga. 

The  day  of  the  races  came,  and  he  won  everything.  When 
the  horses  were  put  in  line  he  stood  at  the  head,  waiting 
for  the  blue  ribbon  to  be  placed  on  his  proudly  arched 
neck,  victory  in  his  eye  and  pride  written  all  over  him, 
when  suddenly  he  seemed  to  collapse,  his  head  dropped 
down  with  a  humbleness  of  which  even  the  least  respecting 
cab  horse  would  not  be  guilty,  his  big  upper  lip  curved  back, 
showing  all  of  his  mule  teeth,  and  the  air  was  filled  with 
an  agonised  bray.  "Hee-haw,  hee-haw,  hee-haw."  The 
blue  ribbon  in  the  judge's  hand  waved  as  if  a  Texas  norther 
had  struck  it.  The  dread  secret  was  out,  and  the  horse  was 
submerged  in  the  mule. 


190  My  Beloved  South 

I  don't  know  why  it  is  that  the  most  ruffianly  of 
all  the  mules  in  the  world  seem  to  come  from  Georgia. 
The  inimitable  history  of  this  one  is  described  over  the 
telephone. 

"Hello — yassah — hello — dis  Marse  Henry?" 

''Yassah — dis  Bob — yassah — Maud,  dat  ar  mule,  she 
dun  bawk!  Not  far — 'bout  two  blocks  outen  de  stable 
-Yassah." 

"Oh,  we  dun  dun  dat,  Marse  Henry.  Yassah — we 
dun  twis'  her  tail." 

"Yassah — little  ole'  trav'lun  man  f'um  Boston — • 
he  twis'  her  tail.  Yassah,  he  's  in  de  hospittle — dey 
dun  kerried  him  ober  dare." 

"Yassah — he  's  hurt  mighty  bad,  Marse  Henry,  but 
dey  '11  take  keer  ob  him  in  de  hospittle." 

"Yassah,  Marse  Henry,  we  dun  dat  too,  we  tied  up 
her  fore  foot — yassah." 

"Nawsuh — nawsuh — hit  didn't  wuck — she  had  two 
hind  foots  lef ." 

"Yassah  —  yassah  —  nice  man  whut  preaches  — 
yassah  he  said  no  mule  could  do  it  wid  one  foot  tied 
up." 

"Yassah — yassah,  but  she  dun  dun  it,  yassah — 
biffed  him  in  de  stumick — de  p'leece  pourin'  water  on 
his  head  now — yassah." 

"Yassah — yassah — we  dun  dat  too — tied  a  horse 
hair  'roun  her  year." 

"Yassah,  yassah — a  big  fat  man,  yassah — jes*  passin' 
by — don't  know  his  entitlement — yassah." 

"Nawsuh — nawsuh — not  a  bery  big  piece — jes'  bit 
a  little  chunk  outen  his  jowl — it 's  bleedin'  right  smart 
but  he  ain't  hurt  much." 

"Yassah — yassah — dey  are  sewin*  up  his  jaw — right 
now — he  's  all  right." 


The  Mules  of  Georgia  191 

"Yassah — yassah — we  dun  built  a  fire  under  her 
too,  yassah." 

"Burn  part  ob  de  cart?  yassah." 

"Yassah — yassah — dun  burn  right  smart  ob  de  cart. 
Dat  's  exactly  what  I  'se  been  tryin'  to  tell  you,  Marse 
Henry — dun  burn  de  whole  cart  all  up,  but  I  did  n't 
want  to  shock  you,  an'  I  wuz  jes'  gwine  to  ax  you  when 
you  gwine  send  a  nurr'  cart  down  heah  sah,  yassah." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  SUWANEE   RIVER 

List,  e'en  now  a  wild  bird  sings, 

And  the  roses  seem  to  hear, 
Every  note  that  thrills  my  ear, 

Rising  to  the  heavens  clear, 
And  my  soul  soars  on  its  wings. 

Father  RYAN. 

IN  Florida,  that  land  of  flowers  and  of  birds,  it  is  said 
the  mocking-birds  sing  more  sweetly  than  anywhere 
else  in  all  the  world. 

On  a  mellow  summer  afternoon,  when  even  the  air, 
hushed  to  stillness,  seemed  waiting,  there  lay  dying  in 
a  long,  low,  white  cottage  covered  with  trumpet  flowers 
and  honeysuckle,  a  little  child.  Her  father  and  mother, 
bowed  with  grief,  were  kneeling  by  the  bedside  and  her 
negro  Mammy  stood  over  her,  with  all  her  strength 
turned  to  pain,  listlessly  moving  a  palm  leaf  fan.  Out- 
side the  window  grew  a  splendid  live-oak,  the  noble 
tree  that  inspired  Sidney  Lanier's  exquisite  appeal: 

Teach  me  the  terms  of  silence,  preach  me 
The  passion  of  patience, 
Lift  me,  impeach  me, 
And  there,  oh  there! 

As  ye  hang  with  your  myriad  palms  upturned  in  the  air, 
pray  me  a  myriad  prayer. 

From  its  branches  came  the  silver  note  oi  a 

192 


The  Suwanee  River  193 

bird.  He  sang  with  crystalline  sweetness,  as  if  to  pour 
out  his  pure  heart  in  one  last  gush  of  melody.  It  was 
thrillingly,  appealingly  tender,  then  piercingly  tri- 
umphant, and  finally  victoriously  exultant. 

In  the  midst  of  his  silent  grief  the  father  could  not 
endure  those  tuneful,  iridescent  dew-drops  of  sound; 
he  arose  from  his  knees  and  went  out  into  the  garden 
to  frighten  the  bird  away.  As  he  stood  under  the  tree 
the  notes  mounted  higher  and  still  higher,  up !  up !  up ! 
until  they  floated  away  into  blue  ether  and  then  seemed 
to  break  all  together  into  one  exultant  chord  of  soul- 
stirring  harmony.  There  was  a  moment  of  profound 
silence,  then  the  bird  dropped  dead  at  his  feet.  He 
picked  it  up  and  went  into  the  house  to  find  the  negro 
Mammy  closing  the  blue  eyes  of  his  little  girl,  and  he 
placed  the  dead  bird  in  the  little  dead  hand.  Was  it, 
he  wondered,  the  song  of  an  angel  or  the  song  of  a  bird? 

One  bitter  cold  winter  day,  long  ago  in  New  York,  an 
accumulation  of  homesickness  flooded  my  soul,  and  I 
determined  to  drop  my  work  and  hear  the  mocking- 
bird sing  once  more.  Going  to  Texas  by  train  was  too 
expensive  for  me  in  those  days,  so  I  went  by  boat,  and 
was  luckily  accompanied  by  my  friend  Phcebe,  a  most 
agreeable  companion,  and  by  far  the  wittiest  woman  I 
have  ever  known,  for  her  wit  was  innocent,  gay,  im- 
personal, infectious,  and  never  hurt  a  human  being  in 
the  world. 

We  left  New  York  in  a  driving  snowstorm,  and  in 
two  days  we  were  sailing  into  perpetual  sunshine  with 
the  Atlantic  as  calm  as  a  lake.  The  only  fellow-pas- 
senger that  I  recollect  was  a  girl  baby,  a  very  beautiful 
child  about  a  year  old,  with  little  soft,  gold  rings  of 
hair  all  over  her  head,  dark  eyes  with  black  fringes,  a 
dimple  in  either  cheek  and  in  her  chin,  and  the  gayest, 
13 


194  My  Beloved  South 

happiest  little  laugh  I  have  ever  heard. — "There  are 
only  three  things  real  on  all  the  earth,  Birth,  Mother 
love  and  a  little  child's  Mirth." — She  was  travelling 
alone  with  her  nurse,  a  worried-looking,  but  very  kind 
negro  mammy  who  told  us  the  child's  history. 

Her  father,  a  young  clergyman,  had  died  of  consump- 
tion leaving  a  family  of  five  children.  It  was  not  long 
before  the  mother  developed  the  same  disease.  Before 
her  death  she  wished  to  see  all  her  little  flock  cared  for, 
and  so,  one  by  one,  she  had  given  them  away  to  people 
who  wished  to  adopt  them,  and  a  lady  from  Key  West 
was  going  to  take  the  last  one,  the  baby.  What  sorrow 
it  must  have  been  to  the  Spartan  mother  to  give  up 
that  dimpled  darling  before  the  end  came! 

When  we  arrived  at  Key  West,  although  in  December, 
it  was  the  most  heavenly  summer  day,  and  in  the  dusk 
of  the  evening  we  saw  myriads  of  roses  lifting  their 
pink-and-white  and  scarlet  buds  and  blossoms  in  the 
soft,  dewy  air.  The  first  three  people  to  board  the  boat 
were  the  baby's  new  family.  First  came  a  lady,  dark, 
tall,  and  vigorous,  with  quick,  capable  movements, 
dressed  in  a  black  tailor-made  gown.  She  wore  a  little 
black  hat  on  her  abundant  hair,  and  carried  a  charming 
bouquet  of  Cloth  of  Gold  roses  in  her  hand.  Walking 
quickly  to  the  nurse  she*  said,  "Is  this  my  baby,  my 
little  Margaret?" 

She  took  the  child  in  her  arms  with  a  most  beautiful, 
close  maternal  embrace  and,  turning,  called  to  her 
husband,  "Harry,  come  quickly,  our  daughter  has 
arrived!"  A  tall  gentleman,  with  an  indulgent  smile, 
stepped  across  the  deck  followed  by  three  sturdy,  dark 
rather  shy  little  boys.  "Hurry  up,  boys,"  said  the 
lady,  "here  is  your  little  sister,  come  and  kiss  her." 
And  all  the  boys  stood  in  a  row  while  the  little,  golden- 


The  Suwanee  River  195 

haired  child  cooed,  made  fluttering  noises,  and  held  out 
her  arms  towards  the  eldest,  who  carried  her  off  the 
boat,  the  mother  and  father,  the  two  younger  boys, 
and  the  nurse,  following.  It  was  such  a  pretty,  attract- 
ive picture,  particularly  after  New  York,  where  children 
are  not  convenient  and  often  are  not  wanted  even  by 
their  own  parents. 

And,  oh,  what  a  night  of  nights  we  spent  at  Key  West ! 
The  boat  cast  anchor  on  account  of  our  heavy  cargo, 
and  we  did  not  leave  until  the  next  morning  at  nine 
o'clock.  Phoebe  and  I — dear,  witty  Phoebe,  who  is 
now  waiting  for  me  on  the  other  side — went  up  on 
deck  to  sit  for  an  hour  or  two,  but  the  glory  of  the 
night  was  so  great,  so  stupendous,  so  wonderful  that 
we  never  went  below  until  seven  o'clock  next  morning. 
There  was  a  full  moon  of  such  penetrating  radiance 
that  we  could  see  the  clear  sapphire  colour  of  the  sky, 
with  occasional  clouds  of  silver  floating  across  it,  and 
the  sea  was  like  an  enormous  looking-glass,  reflecting 
all  the  glories  of  the  world.  Phoebe  said,  "  I  understand 
now 

"'Peace,  deep  as  the  sleeping  sea, 
When  the  Stars  their  myriads  glass 
In  its  blue  immobility.'" 

The  sapphire  chalice  of  the  heavens,  studded  with 
glittering  stars,  and  the  silver  clouds  were  all  reflected 
in  its  smooth  glittering  surface,  and  there  were  many 
flying  fish  of  purple,  of  azure  and  silver,  leaping  out  of 
the  still  water,  like  amphibious  butterflies,  leaving  a 
shower  of  diamonds  in  their  wake.  As  the  morning 
dawned,  the  wind  came  up  out  of  the  sea  and  rippled 
a  thousand  little  foam-crested  waves  into  being,  and 
on  each  one  rode  a  tiny,  opalescent  craft  in  full  sail,  of 


196  My  Beloved  South 

pink  and  gold,  and  mauve  and  orange,  for  a  shoal  of 
flying  fish  were  floating  out  to  deep  water  for  their 
morning  swim. 

There  was  a  glow  of  rose  in  the  East,  at  first  of  the 
palest  pink  then  gradually  deepening  and,  inch  by 
inch,  the  sun  began  to  push  his  luminous  head  up  into 
this  rainbow  world  of  marvellous  colour.  But  the 
moon,  in  her  sea  of  blue,  shone  bravely  on,  till  at  last 
there  was  a  silver  moon  in  a  sapphire  sky  in  the  West, 
and  a  golden  sun  in  a  roseate  sky  in  the  East.  Between 
the  sunshine  and  the  moonshine  there  was  a  great 
dividing  bridge  of  thousands  of  little  clouds,  making 
an  immense  path  of  translucent  opalescent  enamel, 
like  the  scales  of  a  giant  silver  fish,  some  of  them  pink, 
and  some  of  them  silver,  and  some  of  them  gold.  And 
the  blue,  blue  water  was  so  clear  we  could  look  down 
into  its  depths  and  see,  shining  on  the  golden  sand,  a 
lost  bit  of  silver.  Far  away  to  the  South,  the  flying- 
fish  were  disappearing  like  fairy  shallops  of  mother-of- 
pearl.  To  the  right  lay  Key  West,  embowered  in 
flowers,  a  little  white,  smokeless  town  (for  there 
were  no  chimneys,  save  those  of  the  kitchens).  A 
bright  wind  came  up  and  freshened  all  the  world,  and 
we  went  downstairs  permeated  and  intoxicated  with 
the  vivid  beauty  of  that  scene. 

It  was  something  of  which  painters  have  dreamed. 
It  was  Turner's  visions  quickened  into  air,  and  light, 
and  harmony.  All  that  he  ever  imagined  or  painted 
of  subtle,  pellucid,  penetrating,  soul-satisfying,  trans- 
parent colour  was  in  this  marvellous  picture  of  Key 
West. 

My  mother  and  grandfather  always  loved  Florida, 
and  my  mother  talked  of  it  continually,  but  I  am  sure 
neither  one  of  them  ever  saw  anything  so  beautiful  as 


The  Suwanee  River  197 

my  unforgotten  night  and  morning  there.  And  it  is 
Florida  that  has  produced  the  American  song  best 
known  to  all  the  world. 

A  little  time  ago  six  Southern  people  were  dining  in 
a  pretty  house  in  London,  and  one  of  them  announced 
that  he  had  crossed  the  Suwanee  River  between  Texas 
and  Louisiana.  The  other  four  jeered  at  the  assertion, 
but  at  the  same  time  were  absolutely  vague  as  to  the 
geography  of  this  river.  In  spite  of  the  world-wide 
reputation  of  the  song  which  makes  so  pathetic  an 
appeal  to  many  great  singers  and  has  become  to  one 
famous  vocalist  her  favourite  encore,  there  was  but 
one  person  at  the  table  who  knew  the  situation  of  the 
Suwanee  River,  which  has  its  source  in  southern  Georgia 
and  flows  south  through  Florida  into  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico,  and  her  knowledge  came  not  from  a  map  but 
from  an  unforgotten  story. 

A  friend  of  mine,  [she  said],  a  well-known  fisherman  from 
the  North,  went  to  Florida  for  Tarpon  fishing.  He  said  that 
one  night  the  boat  was  floating  down  a  small,  narrow  stream 
with  giant  trees  meeting  overhead  so  closely  that  they 
completely  shut  away  even  the  starlight.  Suddenly  the 
boat  turned  and  they  entered  a  broad,  shining  river.  The 
moon  had  just  risen,  that  radiant  Southern  moon  that 
illumines  the  darkest  shadows,  and  turns  everything  to 
purest  silver.  There  were  primeval  trees  on  each  side  of 
the  bank  which  threw  black  shadows  on  the  water,  and  the 
grey  moss  was  of  such  luxuriant  length  that  some  of  it 
dipped  into  the  silvery  ripples.  It  was  a  scene  of  marvellous 
beauty,  while  a  hundred  different  perfumes — honeysuckle, 
night-blooming  jessamine,  wild  roses,  rain  lilies,  oleander, 
magnolias,  pink  mimosa  and  myriads  of  orange  blossoms — 
were  wafted  from  the  shore. 

The  gentleman  drew  a  long  breath  and  rejoiced  that  he 
was  alive,  and  alive  in  that  particular  spot.  The  boatman, 


198  My  Beloved  South 

a  Florida  cracker,  could  neither  read  nor  write;  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  world  nor  in  the  world,  but  that  he  was  a 
fisherman.  My  friend  turned  and  asked  him  what  river  it 
was. 

"This,"  he  answered,  "is  the  Suwanee  River." 

"What!"  said  my  friend,  "the  Suwanee  River,  the  river 
that  is  beloved  of  all  the  world  and  has  been  the  inspira- 
tion of  an  unforgotten  song?" 

"I  ain't  never  heard  of  no  song,  but  sho'  'miff  it 's  the 
Suwanee  River." 

My  friend  said,  "You  have  never  heard  the  song  with 
which  Christine  Nilsson,  the  greatest  singer  in  the  world, 
has  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  thousands  of  people?  You 
never  heard,  "Way  Down  Upon  The, Suwanee  River?' 

"No,  I  ain't  never  heard  it,  and  I  ain't  never  heard  of  it, " 
said  the  man. 

"  Well, "  said  my  friend,  "  you  are  not  to  go  to  your  grave, 
my  good  man,  without  hearing  it.  I  have  never  sung  before 
in  my  life,  but  I  am  going  to  sing  it  to  you  now. " 

And  he  raised  his  voice  and  sang, 

"  'Way  down  upon  de  S'wanee  ribber, 

Far,  far  away, 
Dar's  whar  my  heart  is  turnin'  ebber, 

Dar's  whar  de  old  folks  stay. 
All  up  and  down  de  whole  creation, 

Sadly  I  roam; 
Still  longing  for  de  old  plantation, 

And  for  de  old  folks  at  home. " 

"Well,"  said  the  man,  with  indifference.  "I  ain't  never 
heard  the  song  before  and  I  don't  care  if  I  never  hear  it 
agin. " 

I  suggested  to  my  friend  that  perhaps  it  was  the  way 
he  sang  it,  but  he  said:  "  No,  I  was  inspired  and  am  sure  I 
sang  it  quite  beautifully;  it  is  simply  that  a  river,  like  a 
man,  is  not  a  prophet  in  his  own  country." 


The  Suwanee  River  199 

Strange  to  say,  one  of  my  most  vivid  memories  of 
this  haunting  song  is  connected  with  Venice.  Renee, 
a  beautiful  young  friend,  and  I  were  floating  along  in  a 
gondola  on  the  Grand  Canal.  It  was  the  middle  of 
October,  the  air  was  delightfully  fresh  and  crisp,  and  to 
add  to  our  pleasure  there  was  a  harvest  moon.  Pre- 
sently we  turned,  leaving  the  other  boats  behind,  and 
lazily  faced  the  Lido,  when  immediately  in  front  of  us, 
gliding  silently  along,  we  noticed  a  gondola  which 
suggested  the  introduction  to  an  interesting  romance. 
The  boat  was  spick  and  span  and  beautiful.  The 
gondolier,  tall,  handsome,  with  a  red  cap  on  his  head, 
a  silken  sash  around  his  waist  and  most  graceful  in  all 
his  movements,  was  leisurely  handling  the  oar.  A  tall, 
lonely  lady,  partly  sat  and  partly  reclined  on  the  black 
cushions.  She  was  dressed  all  in  black  and  enveloped 
in  splendid  furs  from  her  neck  to  her  feet.  An  enormous 
black  hat,  with  drooping  black  feathers  shaded  her 
face  so  that  we  could  only  see  a  little  of  her  white  neck. 
A  subtle  perfume  was  wafted  towards  us,  there  was 
something  magnetic  and  mysterious  in  her  appearance, 
and  I  said  to  Renee,  "  She  is  our  first  chapter  in  a  thrill- 
ing novel."  Her  gondola  was  a  little  in  advance  of 
ours,  and  we  told  our  boatman  to  follow  it.  For  some 
moments  the  two  gondolas  floated  along  in  perfect 
silence,  there  was  no  one  else  in  sight,  and  we  were 
getting  nearer  the  Lido.  Suddenly  the  lady  in  the  furs 
began  to  sing,  'Way  Down  Upon  the  Suwanee  River,  with 
such  a  voice,  such  feeling,  such  sweet  tenderness  and 
longing,  that  the  tears  rushed  to  my  eyes  and  Renee 
seized  me  by  the  wrist  and  exclaimed,  "  Why,  it 's  Calve." 

When  she  finished  the  Suwanee  River  her  voice 
became  full  of  supplication  and  tenderness  in  Victor 
Hugo's  Serenade. 


200  My  Beloved  South 

"  Quand  tu  ris  sur  ta  bouche  1'amour  s'e"panouit, 
Et  soudain  le  farouche  soupcon  s'evanouit. 
Ah !  le  rire  fidele  prouve  un  cceur  sans  detour. 
Ah,  riez,  riez,  ma  belle,  riez,  riez,  toujours! 
Riez,  riez,  ma  belle,  riez  toujours,  riez." 

a 
Then  she  flashed  out  her  great  song,  the  Habanera 

in  Carmen,  and  Dixie  followed  with  an  adorable  accent 
and  all  the  fire  of  the  South.  How  my  heart  thrilled 
at  her  intensity  as  she  sang, 

"I  wish  I  was  in  a  land  of  cotton 
Cinnamon  seed  and  sandy  bottom, 
Look  away,  look  away,  look  away,  down  South  in  Dixie. " 

By  this  time  we  had  arrived  at  the  Lido,  and  although 
it  .was  after  ten  o'clock  and  dark,  the  inhabitants 
recognised  Calve's  wonderful  voice.  Windows  were 
thrown  open,  and  calls  of  "Calve!"  "Bravo!"  "Calve!" 
4 '  Calve ! "  "  Bravissimo ! ' '  came  towards  us  with  spon- 
taneous applause.  As  the  boats  turned  round  and 
faced  Venice,  she  turned  her  noble  head  and  said, 
"Madame,  quand  je  suis  triste,  je  chante  toujours." 
And  I  answered,  "Madame,  your  sorrow  is  our  joy." 
Renee  and  I  were  full  of  wonder  and  talk  until  we 
arrived  at  our  hotel,  when  it  was  our  pleasure  to 
find  that  Madame  Calve  had  preceded  us  and  was 
occupying  a  suite  of  apartments  on  our  floor.  My 
charming  friend  in  Paris,  Madame  Runkle,  a  delightful 
musician  herself,  had  asked  me  once  or  twice  to  meet 
Madame  Calve,  but  it  had  been  impossible,  and  when 
I  introduced  myself  as  Madame  Runkle's  friend,  she 
said,  "But  I  felt  when  you  passed  me  in  the  boat,  that 
it  contained  a  sympathetic  soul,  that  is  why  I  spoke 
to  you.  Now  we  must  be  together  every  moment 
while  we  are  in  Venice."  And  we  were. 


The  Suwanee  River  201 

Apparently  she  was  there  to  make  a  pilgrimage  of 
churches.  She  said  she  had  a  dear  memory  connected 
with  that  adorable  city  at  the  sea.  At  the  moment  she 
was  very  sad,  so  our  being  together  meant  that  she 
and  I  and  handsome  Renee  said  our  prayers,  and  wept 
together  in  every  church  in  Venice.  She  wept  for  the 
sorrows  of  the  present,  I  for  the  sorrows  of  the  past, 
and  dear,  young  Renee  for  the  sorrows  of  the  future, 

At  night  we  went  to  the  Lido  and  she  gave  us  heavenly 
concerts  all  along  the  way,  but  the  Suwanee  River,  and 
Dixie  have  never  been  sung  with  such  beauty,  such 
pathos,  such  hopeless  longing  or  such  fiery  defiance  as 
by  this  great  artist. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  WOMEN  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 

THE  "Crescent  City"  is  no  meaningless  name,  for 
the  Mississippi  in  its  constant  movement  has 
shaped  the  banks  where  New  Orleans  lies  into  a  half- 
moon,  and  this  Spanish,  French,  Creole  city  preserves 
to  a  very  great  extent  its  romantic  atmosphere.  Its 
distinctive  charm  and  character  remain  French.  There 
is  no  slightest  reminder  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  in  its 
warmth  and  colour,  but  a  suggestion  of  the  mail-clad 
Spaniard  who  came  in  quest  of  glory,  and  the  sanguine 
Frenchman,  believing  in  visions  of  the  seven  fabled 
Cities  of  Gold.  With  the  Spanish  knights  came  dark- 
eyed  beauties  with  fan  and  mantilla,  and  from  France 
ladies  with  powdered  hair,  high-heeled  shoes,  music, 
song,  and  dance.  The  English  Cavalier  came  later, 
followed  by  the  Colonial  squire  with  his  comfortable 
fortune  and  his  slaves.  But  already,  the  gay  and  witty 
Latin  gentleman,  the  man  of  adventure,  had.  set  his 
seal  on  Louisiana,  and  to-day,  even  in  the  midst  of  its 
advance  and  progress,  the  foreign  spirit,  the  delightful 
atmosphere  of  the  past  lingers  in  the  lap  of  the  present. 
The  Southern  woman  has  always  been  distinguished 
for  her  spirit  and  self-possession.  When  New  Orleans 
fell  in  1862  and  all  was  wild  excitement  and  tumult,  a 
very  pretty  lady  with  dark  eyes,  a  white  dress  and  rose- 
wreathed  hat,  was  gracefully  and  coquettishly  walking 

202 


The  Women  of  New  Orleans         203 

along  the  banquette,  her  sweet  face  quite  placid  and 
undismayed. 

"  What, "  she  said,  stopping  to  speak  to  a  soldier,  "  is 
the  latest  order?" 

"They  say,"  was  the  answer,  "that  General  Butler 
is  going  to  imprison  women,  if  they  do  not  behave 
themselves." 

Her  lip  curled  in  scorn. 

"How  very  gauche  of  him,"  she  observed,  "this 
timid  General  who  fears  a  petticoat. " 

"Take  care,  Madame,"  said  the  soldier,  " I  shall  have 
to  arrest  you." 

"Really,"  said  the  lady,  "that  would  not  be  very 
polite  of  you.  I  hope  you  will  permit  me  to  change  my 
gown  first.  What  would  you  like  me  to  wear  in  prison?  " 

"It  would  be  an  impertinence  for  me  to  advise  you, " 
said  the  Northerner.  "  If  I  was  n't  a  soldier  and  a 
despised  Yankee,  I  might  add  '  in  any  gown  you  would 
be  gracious  in  my  eyes. ' 

"  Perhaps, "  said  the  lady,  "  I  may  give  you  an  oppor- 
tunity of  saying  that  to  General  Butler  in  my  defence. 
Meanwhile,  why  are  those  boys  and  men  screaming, 
yelling,  and  running?" 

"Madame,"  said  the  soldier,  "a  shell  has  burst  over 
their  heads  or  under  their  feet. " 

"Indeed,"  she  said,  "how  very  unpleasant  for  them! 
Au  revoir,  monsieur;  pour  vos  nouvelles  mille  remerci- 
ments."  And,  turning,  she  adjusted  her  rose-coloured 
parasol,  making  one  cheek  pinker  than  the  other,  and 
holding  up  her  dainty  skirt,  walked  composedly  and 
gracefully  away. 

The  soldier  looked  after  her  and  said,  "Game,  by 
gad,  game  all  through. " 

And  the  courage  of  the  Southern  woman  has  not 


204  My  Beloved  South 

grown  less  with  her  modern  development  and  advance- 
ment, in  which  New  Orleans  compares  most  favourably 
with  other  cities  of  the  Union.  The  Sophie  Newcomb 
College  for  the  higher  education  of  women,  founded  by 
Mrs.  Josephine  Louise  Newcomb  as  a  memorial  to  her 
daughter,  is  a  department  of  the  Tulane  University. 
The  endowment  is  magnificent,  making  it  one  of  the 
richest  colleges  in  America,  with  a  power  for  develop- 
ment possible  in  any  direction.  Mrs.  Sneath,  a  lady 
originally  from  the  West,  who  is  greatly  interested  in 
the  college,  where  her  daughter  received  her  education, 
was  my  cicerone.  The  buildings  are  beautifully  located 
and  there  is  every  comfort  and  convenience  within  their 
ample  space.  The  long  kitchen,  spotlessly  clean  and 
complete,  with  every  modern  cooking  utensil,  and  a 
cordon  bleu  to  give  lectures  and  practical  demonstra- 
tions, sends  forth  accomplished  academic  cooks.  It 
seems  to  me  that,  with  servants  daily  becoming  more 
scarce,  cooking  is  far  more  necessary  for  women  than 
a  course  in  the  classics.  From  kitchen  to  garden  was 
but  a  step.  The  walks  and  courts  are  ample  grassy 
places,  shaded  by  fine  oaks  with  their  long  pendants  of 
grey  moss,  and  the  girls  when  not  in  their  classes  lead  a 
free,  open-air,  athletic  life. 

Professor  Elsworth  Woodward  showed  us  through 
the  art  department,  where  there  were  many  original 
specimens  of  pottery.  A  large  plaque  of  shaded  Chinese 
blue  with  fine  broad-leaved  magnolia  blossoms  was 
worthy  of  any  cabinet,  and  one  piece  of  embroidery 
would  certainly  have  aroused  the  enthusiasm  and  in- 
spired the  gifted  pen  of  Ruskin.  It  was  a  scarf,  the 
groundwork  of  which  was  of  an  old  gold  natural  silky 
flax,  woven  with  a  round  thread  in  a  diamond  pattern, 
and  either  end  was  heavily  embroidered  in  a  conven- 


The  Women  of  New  Orleans         205 

tional  design  of  cr£pe  myrtle.  The  deep  colour  of  the 
pink  and  the  delicate  form  of  the  flower  and  foliage  lend 
themselves  to  a  most  happy  decoration.  The  lady  who 
made  it  planted  and  grew  the  flax,  gathered  and  spun 
the  threads,  wove  them  into  linen,  watched  and  waited 
for  the  flower  to  blossom,  and  while  she  breathed  its 
faint  perfume  copied  it  with  her  needle.  It  is  a  most 
exquisite  and  original  piece  of  work.  The  landscapes, 
the  glorious  sunsets,  a  perfect  feast  of  colour,  the  tropi- 
cal and  semi-tropical  foliage  of  Louisiana,  are  all 
inspirations  to  the  artist,  and  that  department  of  New- 
comb  College  under  the  enthusiastic  direction  of  Pro- 
fessor Woodward  will  go  far  in  its  development. 

Another  institution,  the  Christian  Woman's  Ex- 
change, is  not  endowed,  but  has  nevertheless  since  1881 
worked  itself  into  an  important  success,  and  has  bought 
its  own  buildings.  Besides  the  business  of  exchange 
and  embroidery  it  provides  excellent  lunches,  both 
for  ladies  of  fashion  and  the  working  women.  New 
Orleans  is,  with  every  reason,  proud  of  having  erected 
the  first  statue  in  America  to  a  woman,  a  humble  Irish 
heroine  who  could  neither  read  nor  write,  and  whose 
only  signature  was  a  cross.  But  she  made  her  sign  in 
memory  of  Him  Who  said,  "Suffer  little  children  to 
come  unto  Me  and  forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is  the 
kingdom  of  heaven. " 

Margaret  Haughery  began  life  as  a  chamber-maid. 
She  saved  money,  and,  having  been  brought  up  on  a 
farm,  bought  "a  dun  cow,"  sold  the  milk,  made  a  begin- 
ning in  this  way,  saved  more  money,  and  invested  in  a 
small  bakery.  The  bread  was  excellent ;  she  was  prompt 
in  her  delivery  and  prospered,  until  at  last  the  little 
bakery  developed  into  an  immense  money-making  affair 
worked  by  steam,  which  yielded  her  a  fortune.  But 


2o6  My  Beloved  South 

from  the  moment  she  began  to  prosper  she  began  to 
give.  Her  heart  was  not  the  heart  of  a  mother  whose 
love  is  centred  only  in  her  own  children;  she  was  one 
of  those  gifts  from  God,  a  universal  mother  to  the 
lonely  children  in  a  hard  world.  All  orphans,  those 
poor  and  friendless  little  ones  found  in  her  a  tender 
mother  who  worked  early  and  late  to  provide  for  their 
needs  and  give  them  homes.  She  had  good  business 
capacity  and  succeeded  in  her  various  enterprises.  She 
built  St.  Vincent's  Orphan  Asylum  facing  the  Square. 
What  joy  it  must  have  given  her  big  heart  to  see  the 
foundations  laid!  She  helped  to  build  St.  Elizabeth's 
Industrial  Home  for  Girls,  and  when  she  died  the  whole 
of  her  fortune  was  distributed  among  different  charities 
for  the  children  whom  she  loved  so  well. 

Although  Margaret  was  a  good  Catholic,  her  intelli- 
gence was  too  large  for  sectarianism.  Jews  and  Protes- 
tants were  alike  to  her — they  were  little,  they  were 
helpless,  they  were  babies, — she  gave  from  her  largesse 
to  them  all.  Her  will,  leaving  the  whole  of  her  savings 
to  New  Orleans  orphanages  and  homes,  was  signed 
with  her  blessed  mark,  a  cross,  and  now,  like  the  beauti- 
ful Elizabeth,  Austria's  murdered  Queen,  who  sits  look- 
ing ever  toward  the  towering  mountains  she  loved  so 
well,  Margaret's  face  is  turned  toward  the  windows  of 
her  Orphanage,  and  the  children  stand  at  twilight 
look  back  and  say,  "There  is  dear  Margaret.  I  wish 
I  might  have  known  her. "  And  the  very  marble  seems 
to  smile.  The  face  is  rugged  and  broad,  but  strong  and 
kind  and  even  distinguished,  as  every  face  must  be  that 
is  illumined  by  a  divine  spirit  from  within.  She  is 
plainly  dressed  and  wears  a  crochet  shawl,  her  Sunday 
best,  made  by  tiny  fingers  that,  but  for  her,  might  have 
perished  by  the  wayside.  Keep  guard,  dear  mother's 


The  Women  of  New  Orleans         207 

heart,  over  those  helpless  ones  who  are  taught  by  the 
gentle  nuns  always  to  remember  you  in  their  innocent 
prayers. 

Another  great  work  in  New  Orleans  had  its  beginnings 
in  the  humble  endeavour  of  a  woman  to  help  a  fellow- 
creature.  A  circus  had  come  to  town,  and,  although 
the  animals  were  well  trained  and  there  were  clever 
riders  and  acrobats,  the  show  had  been  a  dead  failure. 
The  last  day  came,  the  circus  was  disbanded,  and  the 
pleasant  smell  of  sawdust  lingered  in  the  air.  The 
manager  had  said  good-bye,  and  these  strolling  players 
were  free  to  find  what  occupations  they  could.  Fate 
sat  smiling  and  turning  over  in  her  roguish,  inventive 
mind  what  should  result  from  this  sad  little  failure. 
Then  she  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed,  as  she 
saw  the  largest  night  school  in  New  Orleans  arising 
from  that  soiled  heap  of  tarnished,  spangled,  torn 
tarletan  and  cast-off  finery. 

One  of  the  performers,  a  young  athlete  of  twenty- 
five,  a  fine  specimen  of  manhood,  had  awakened  to  the 
fact  that  he  wanted  to  do  more  than  exhibit  his  muscles 
to  the  multitude.  If  he  only  had  a  little  more  education, 
he  thought,  he  would  try  for  a  place  in  the  Civil  Service, 
settle  down  to  steady  occupation,  and  have  a  home  of 
his  own  with  regularity  and  certainty  in  his  life. 

As  he  wandered  about  he  saw  a  sign,  "Day  School 
for  Girls."  Why  not  here  as  well  as  anywhere?  He 
walked  up  the  path.  He  rang  the  bell,  and  a  girl  came 
to  the  door.  She  was  delicate  and  crippled,  but  the  self- 
sacrificing  soul  of  the  universal  mother  shone  from  her 
tender  eyes.  He  humbly  answered  the  look,  and  knew 
he  had  found  succour.  In  short,  broken  sentences  he 
told  his  simple  little  story — how  he  had  run  away  from 
home  as  a  boy,  joined  a  circus,  and  had  no  education. 


208  My  Beloved  South 

"Could  she,  would  she  help  him?"  And  she  said 
impulsively,  "Certainly  I  can  and  will  help  you." 

Then  she  considered  that  all  her  days  were  occupied, 
her  time  being  closely  divided  between  teaching  in  her 
own  seminary  and  the  Normal  School.  The  man  said, 
"I  have  no  money,  not  a  penny;  you  will  even  have  to 
give  me  a  spelling-book. "  And  the  girl  answered,  "I  '11 
manage  that,  but  I  'm  poor  too.  I  work  all  day  teach- 
ing and  have  only  my  nights  free.  Can  you  come  then?  " 

Of  course  he  could,  and  he  was  only  the  first  of  a 
steady  stream  that  began  to  flow,  ever  broadening, 
through  the  wide-opened  heavenly  door.  Her  willing 
maternal  hands  began  to  lift  the  thick  heavy  veil  of 
ignorance  from  the  poor  and  needy  and  to  let  in,  little 
by  little,  the  light  upon  their  dark  benighted  way. 

With  her  hard  work  all  day,  her  crippled  frame  and 
over-active  brain,  sometimes  the  weak  body  was  tired, 
but  she  worked  on,  undaunted  in  spirit,  widening  her 
scope  of  influence,  until  there  was  scarcely  a  corner  in 
New  Orleans  where  it  was  not  felt,  and  where  the  name 
of  Sophie  Wright  was  not  honoured  and  known.  Volun- 
teers came  to  help  in  the  noble  work,  and  only  two 
conditions  were  exacted  of  the  pupils — they  must 
be  unable  to  attend  day  schools  on  account  of  being 
employed  during  the  hours  when  they  were  open,  and 
they  must  be  too  poor  to  pay  for  lessons. 

In  the  meantime  her  own  school,  the  Home  Institute, 
had  prospered.  Her  pupils  were  well-to-do  girls;  she 
did  her  duty  strictly  by  them,  but  her  struggling, 
ignorant  men  and  needy  boys  were  her  real  children. 
They  were  creatures  to  whom  she  was  necessary.  She 
was  their  helpful,  spiritual  mother  and  teacher.  She 
was  giving  them  the  means  through  education  to  earn 
their  bread  and  to  better  themselves.  Jews,  Gentiles, 


The  Women  of  New  Orleans         209 

Catholics  and  Protestants,  the  school  was  open  to  all. 
Grown  men  came  to  learn  their  A,  B,  C's,  boys  to  im- 
prove their  arithmetic,  young  men  to  learn  mechanical 
drawing.  And  frail,  crippled,  with  no  rich  patrons, 
Sophie  Wright  dared  Fate.  She  fearlessly  borrowed  the 
money  for  her  night  school  at  eight  per  cent,  compound 
interest.  She  bought  a  larger  house.  Her  guardian 
angel  hovered  ever  near  her.  The  day  school  prospered. 
She  put  all  the  money  into  books,  maps,  and  articles 
necessary  for  the  night  school,  and  even  with  her  con- 
stant outlay  she  reduced  her  debt  one-half,  until  the 
yellow  fever  swept  New  Orleans.  Then  she  turned  her 
schoolhouse  into  a  dispensary  to  which  food,  clothes, 
old  linen  and  medicines  were  sent  for  distribution,  and 
there  she  stayed  except  when  on  her  tours  through  the 
afflicted  city. 

When  the  frost  came  to  kill  the  detestable  stegomyia, 
the  poisonous  striped  mosquito,  and  the  fever  was 
finally  routed,  Sophie  Wright  was  face  to  face  with 
ruin.  Apparently  neither  her  own  school  could  go  on, 
nor  the  night  school,  which  was  so  dear  to  her  heart. 
But  Heaven  again  befriended  her.  A  banker  took  over 
her  mortgage  and  lent  her  ten  thousand  dollars,  while 
two  men  interested  in  her  school  each  promised  two 
thousand  dollars  a  year.  Before  the  yellow  fever  came 
she  had  had  three  hundred  pupils  in  her  night  school ; 
before  the  end  of  the  following  year  she  had  a  thousand. 
And  she  not  only  had  room  for  them,  but  clean  books, 
stout  desks,  good  maps,  and  forty  teachers  to  assist  her. 
There  were  European  teachers  who  understood  foreign 
languages  to  instruct  the  raw  immigrants,  and  now  girls 
were  also  admitted  to  certain  departments.  The  course 
was  enlarged  to  algebra,  geometry,  calculus,  shorthand, 
mechanical  drawing,  bookkeeping  and  history.  All 


210  My  Beloved  South 

sorts  and  conditions  of  students  came — clerks,  machin- 
ists, typesetters,  errand  boys,  post  office  boys,  news- 
boys, bootblacks,  and,  finally,  the  "Spasm  Band,"  a 
group  of  nameless  waifs  who  sold  papers  by  day  and 
made  night  hideous  with  horrible  noises.  Stale  Bread, 
the  leader,  had  decided  that  Slowfoot,  Pete,  Warm- 
gravy,  Zu-Zu,  and  Rum-Punch  must  be  educated.  They 
however,  proved  too  wild  even  for  Miss  Sophie's  strong 
will  to  subdue,  and  only  Stale  Bread  remained  until  he 
could  read,  then,  sadly  enough,  blindness  blotted  out 
the  newly  acquired  letters  from  his  sight.  But  the  night 
school  prospered,  although  the  debt  of  ten  thousand 
dollars  still  remained,  until  a  cheque  for  the  amount, 
accompanied  by  a  loving  cup — a  tribute  from  New 
Orleans  to  its  Best  Citizen  a  woman, — was  presented  to 
the  founder  of  the  night  school,  Sophie  Wright. 

Sometimes  there  does  seem  to  be,  even  on  this  earth, 
a  law  of  compensation.  It  has  come  to  Sophie  Wright, 
who  was  born  in  1866  at  a  time  when  the  South  was 
poorest.  At  the  age  of  three,  becoming  a  cripple  from 
a  fall,  she  spent  six  years  strapped  in  a  chair.  It  must 
have  been  a  time  of  pure  torture  for  this  child  to  remain 
inactive,  with  her  eager  questioning  mind,  desiring  to 
drink  thirstily  from  the  fount  of  knowledge.  After- 
wards she  completed  her  education  in  five  years  and 
opened  a  little  school  for  girls.  If  she  had  been  strong 
and  well,  she  would  in  all  probability  have  married, 
and  whether  happier  for  her  or  not,  it  certainly  was 
better  for  the  world,  that  she  should  have  entered 
the  arena  of  public  life  and  have  become  the  intel- 
lectual mother  of  so  many  neglected  children.  She 
gave  one  thousand,  five  hundred  and  eighty-one  pupils 
to  the  city  of  New  Orleans  when  she  turned  over  her 
night  school  to  its  care,  and,  like  all  mothers  who  send 


The  Women  of  New  Orleans         211 

their  children  out  into  the  world,  she  has  her  lonely 
moments.  But  honours  are  still  showered  upon  her. 
The  Girls'  High  School  in  New  Orleans  has  just  re- 
ceived the  name  of  "The  Sophie  Wright  School,"  and 
to  all  who  know  her  she  stands  for  the  absolute  triumph 
of  Mind  over  Matter,  the  unanswerable  evidence  of  a 
valiant  soul  conquering  and  surmounting  the  dragging 
flesh,  and  presenting  an  argument  for  the  soul's  immor- 
tality to  the  unbelieving. 

And  though  New  Orleans  can  strike  a  serious  note,  it 
is  a  gay-hearted  city.  New  York  is  too  hurried  even  to 
smile,  London  on  the  sunniest  day  can  only  look  com- 
placent and  cheerful,  but  New  Orleans  can  riotously 
laugh.  During  the  carnival,  Rex,  its  king,  is  the  mer- 
riest, maddest,  gayest  of  all  living  monarchs.  Mardi 
Gras  makes  even  the  most  melancholy  citizen  cheerful. 
The  people  love  the  carnival  and  never  grow  tired  of 
it,  for  it  means  colour,  light,  music  and  movement. 
When  I  saw  the  wonderful  frescoes  of  Goya  in 
Madrid,  they  brought  back  memories  of  the  rich 
Spanish  colours — the  orange  and  rose,  purple  and  red, 
gold  and  green — of  the  New  Orleans  Carnival. 

What  an  experience  it  is  for  the  young — a  lifting  of 
life's  practical  veil,  a  veritable  peep  into  long-lost 
fairyland.  The  mystery  that  surrounds  this  merry 
function  is  more  alluring  still.  Rex  and  his  Broow 
flower,  the  blossom  of  laughter  invented  by  himself— 
the  very  mention  of  him  brings  back  merriment  for- 
gotten, and  that  jolly  king  is,  above  all,  the  most  gallant 
monarch  in  the  world,  for,  even  more  than  his  kingdom, 
he  loves  chivalry  and  beauty  and  youth.  To-night  he 
gives  the  ever  dear  and  always  entrancing  story  of  Cin- 
derella. The  Prince,  brave  in  velvet,  satin,  gold  lace, 
silken  hose  and  diamond  garter,  is  surrounded  by  his 


212  My  Beloved  South 

gallant  gentlemen-in-waiting.  The  selfish  Mamma  and 
Papa  and  the  Ugly  Sisters  are  arrayed  in  purple  and 
fine  linen.  The  Fairy  Godmother,  with  her  pointed  hat, 
starched  ruff,  and  quilted  petticoat,  leans  on  her  magic 
staff,  and  a  crowd  of  girls,  like  fluttering  white  doves, 
await  the  Prince  and  the  slipper: 

"Ho,  ho!    Ho,  ho!    Ho,  ho! 
But  lowly  and  high  are  eager  to  try 
In  attic  and  yard  and  cellar; 
Each  maid  in  the  land  is  longing  to  stand 
In  the  slippers  of  Cinderella. 
Ho,  ho !     Heel  and  toe ! 
Nay,  pretty  maid,  they  are  not  for  you. 
Your  ankle's  neat,  and  your  stockings  are  sweet, 
But  you  have  n't  the  foot  for  a  fairy  shoe. " 

There  is  only  One  for  that  enchanted  slipper,  and  she, 
the  youngest  of  them  all,  sits  dreaming  and  unconscious 
of  the  high  rank  that  in  a  moment  kind  Fate  is  about  to 
bestow  upon  her.  Among  the  ladies-in-waiting  a  charm- 
ing, eager,  dainty  maiden  has  a  tender  hope  of  the 
coming  honour  her  sister  may  receive.  She  remembers 
now  that  months  ago  a  gallant  knight  was  extremely 
solicitous  as  to  the  size  of  her  sister's  shoe.  Why? 
What  reason  had  he?  Her  heart  beats  to  suffocation. 
Her  sister  is  from  Virginia;  it  is  rare  that  an  outside  girl 
is  chosen  as  the  Queen  of  Beauty.  New  Orleans 
favours  first  her  own  fair  daughters.  But  her  sister  is  so 
lovely,  so  sweet,  so  exquisite — surely  she  is  "Queen  of 
all  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls. "  She  looks  lovingly  at 
that  fair  proud  head;  perhaps ? 

The  music  sounds  importantly;  the  Prince  and  his 
precious  trophy,  the  little  glass  slipper  covered  in  over- 
lapping, iridescent  spangles,  sparkling  with  the  rain- 


The  Women  of  New  Orleans         213 

bow's  every  hue,  has  started  on  his  quest.  Anxiety 
brings  the  Fairy  Godmother  a  little  forward;  she  looks 
first  at  one  girl,  then  at  another.  No,  not  this  pretty 
foot,  nor  this,  nor  this.  The  Ugly  Sisters  can  only 
balance  the  fairy  slipper  upon  one  toe  and  fan  their 
masks  in  vexation.  Their  rage  makes  the  house  rock 
with  laughter. 

It  is  easy  to  laugh  to-night.  What  a  pretty  ankle! 
But  no,  the  little  glass  slipper  goes  farther  afield.  The 
anxious  Godmother  almost  points  her  wand,  but  it 
would  n't  be  fair,  and  it  only  trembles  in  her  hand. 
Look!  the  Prince  has  paused;  is  it  the  beautiful  face 
uplifted  to  his?  No !  He  kneels  to  a  still  more  beautiful 
girl,  and  lifts  an  astonished  little  foot  to  his  knee;  his 
equerry  bends  over  and  delicately  adjusts  the  folds  of 
silk  in  modest  place.  The  glass  slipper  fits;  it  is  on, 
Cinderella  is  found ! 

"Ho,  ho!     Blow  high,  blow  low! 
Come  winter  snow  or  come  skies  of  blue! 
You  '11  tread  upon  air  as  through  life  you  fare, 
If  only  you  're  wearing  a  fairy  shoe. " 

The  music  gives  a  splendid  blare  of  triumph.  For  a 
moment  the  scene  for  Cinderella  is  blurred,  the  lights 
blend  together  in  rose,  gold,  blue  and  silver.  Then  her 
own  generous  sister  (not  one  of  the  plain  ones)  touches 
her  lovingly  on  the  shoulder,  saying,  "Steady,  dear 
Princess,  your  crown  awaits  you."  The  Prince  takes 
her  hand,  assists  her  to  rise;  gentlemen-in- waiting 
reverently  bearing  the  insignia  of  her  rank  advance. 
In  a  second  all  the  front  of  her  simple  white  gown 
glitters  with  jewels,  splendid  diamonds  encircle  her 
throat  and  wrists,  a  crown  of  rubies  and  pearls  is  placed 
on  her  abundant  hair,  a  court  train  of  ermine  and  velvet 


214  My  Beloved  South 

is  attached  by  ropes  and  tassels  of  glittering  stones  to 
her  shoulders.  She  is  no  longer  Cinderella,  but  a  veri- 
table shimmering  Princess  of  Fairyland.  The  future 
Consort,  this  gallant  Cavalier  and  Prince  by  her  side, 
has  lightly  kissed,  with  his  beautiful  pink,  wax  lips,  her 
hand  and  gently  placed  it  on  his  arm. 

The  music  plays  a  passionate  throbbing  waltz.  Is 
she  dancing,  she  wonders,  or  merely  floating  in  air? 
Her  cheeks  are  aflame,  her  eyes  are  glittering  blue-steel 
stars,  her  lips  are  rose-leaves  parted  over  pearls,  all 
her  emotional  nature  awakened,  she  is  transcendently 
lovely.  Hold  high,  Queen  of  Beauty,  the  Beaker  of 
Life  and  drink;  drain  every  drop  of  its  intoxicating 
nectar  to-night,  for  it  is  filled  to  the  brim  with  mystery, 
music,  laughter,  light,  gaiety,  youth  (you  are  barely 
eighteen) ,  rose-red  beauty  and  awakening  love.  Perhaps 
your  future  betrothal  and  wifehood  lie  just  behind  that 
handsome  impenetrable  mask,  for  those  gloved  hands 
are  wonderfully  tender,  guiding  you  through  the  mazes 
of  the  dance.  And  no  matter,  dear  Cinderella,  what 
sorrow  the  Fates  hold  in  store  for  you,  this  is  your 
supreme  hour.  You  are  Queen  of  the  World,  and  yours 
is  not  the  dull  Kingdom  of  Inheritance,  but  the  unlim- 
ited Kingdom  of  the  Imagination.  It  is  given  you  with 
lavish  hand,  for  you  are  all  the  gods  love — glad  youth, 
sweet  beauty,  unconscious  innocence.  Dance,  dance, 
until  you  are  breathless,  go  home  with  a  happy  heart 
in  the  saffron  dawn.  And,  without  his  mask,  to-morrow 
the  Prince  will  come  to  woo. 

Society  in  New  Orleans  is  the  most  agreeable  in 
America,  for  the  reason  that  women  do  not  entirely 
make  it.  Men  are  of  it  and  in  it.  They  belong  to  it  by 
right  of  inheritance;  they  brought  from  the  gay  salons 


The  Women  of  New  Orleans         215 

of  Paris  two  centuries  ago  an  appreciation,  an  intimacy 
with  women  and  an  understanding  of  them,  and  they 
are  to-day  thoroughly  at  ease,  courtly  and  happy  in  the 
society  of  ladies,  and  at  the  same  time  are  manly  men 
of  affairs.  The  women  of  New  Orleans  are  open- 
heartedly  hospitable  and  kind.  Mrs.  Bruns,  who  mar- 
ried Dr.  Henry  Bruns,  the  son  of  Dr.  J.  Dickson  Bruns 
(who  until  his  death  was  an  extremely  popular  doctor 
and  more  than  an  ordinary  poet),  is  a  unique  woman, 
pretty,  dainty,  agreeable,  full  of  enthusiasm,  with  both 
the  door  of  her  heart  and  her  house  ever  on  the  latch. 
Someone  said,  "Katie  Bruns's  husband  is  going  to  give 
her  a  new  carriage. "  "  Why, ' '  said  a  woman  who  knows 
her  well,  "that  won't  be  the  least  use  to  her.  What 
Katie  wants  is  a  roomy  omnibus  to  accommodate  all  her 
friends." 

Mrs.  Logan,  Mrs.  Bruns's  mother,  was  visiting  her 
when  I  was  at  her  house,  and,  discovering  that  she  had 
nursed  Judge  Brawley  during  the  War  when  he  was 
wounded  and  lost  an  arm,  I  said,  "This  is  not  according 
to  romance;  you  should  have  married  him,  dear  Mrs. 
Logan. "  She  blushed,  the  blush  of  seventy  which  is  as 
delicate  as  the  beautiful  blush  of  seventeen,  and  said, 
"I  married  his  most  intimate  friend.  The  Judge  was 
always  talking  to  me  of  my  husband.  I  think  I  loved 
General  Logan  even  before  I  met  him. "  (Another  case 
of  Priscilla  and  Miles  Standish!)  "When  my  husband 
first  saw  me,"  she  continued,  "he  was  pleased  to  call 
me  the  'pious  flirt,'  but  finally  apologised  by  falling 
in  love  with  me,  and  we  were  married  at  the  end  of  the 
War. "  How  delightful  it  is  to  be  charming  at  seventy ! 

With  no  effort  or  trouble  Mrs.  Bruns  entertains  con- 
stantly. The  moment  I  arrived  in  New  Orleans  I  was 
bidden  to  come  next  morning  to  an  eleven  o'clock 


216  My  Beloved  South 

breakfast.  Ruth  McEnery  Stuart,  that  true  daughter 
of  the  South  and  talented  delineator  of  Southern  life, 
was  there.  No  one,  not  even  Uncle  Remus  himself,  has 
written  more  humorously  and  tenderly  of  the  negro 
than  she.  And  as  a  woman  she  is  so  entirely  lovable, 
free  from  pettiness,  and  generous. 

Mrs.  Bruns  said,  handing  me  a  silver  filagree  basket, 
"  Let  me  recommend  these  cakes  to  you. " 

"No,  thank  you,"  I  said. 

"Ruth  McEnery  Stuart  made  them  especially  for 
you, "  she  added. 

"Then,"  I  said,  "give  me  the  whole  basket  and  I 
will  eat  them  all." 

It  was  so  reminiscent  of  the  old  dear  neighbourly 
South,  to  prepare  a  delicacy  for  a  friend.  Ruth  Stuart  is 
a  wonderfully  proficient  cook  and  has  invented  a  number 
of  toothsome  dishes.  She  recited  her  own  poems  in 
negro  dialect  that  afternoon  and  they  were  so  touching 
that  when  she  finished  no  one  was  able  to  speak  at  first, 
least  of  all  myself.  Some  day  she  is  coming  to  England 
to  conquer  London  and  with  her  energy  she  will  do  it. 
When  she  invited  me  to  a  six  o'clock  breakfast  party 
in  the  old  French  market  I  paused  for  a  moment,  before 
accepting  it,  but,  of  course,  I  went  and  the  party  was  a 
great  success.  The  coffee  served  there  is  unsurpassed 
in  the  world.  Miss  Stuart  said  an  old  Cajan  priest 
declared  it  to  be,  "  as  pure  as  the  angels,  as  strong  as  the 
devil,  and  as  hot  as  hell, "  combining  the  three  qualities 
necessary  to  make  coffee  perfection.  But  William  Beer, 
who  with  an  indelible  memory  and  wide  reading,  knows 
everything,  said,  "I  fear  your  worthy  priest  is  a 
plagiarist;  Talleyrand  said  before  him:  lle  cafe  doit 
etre  noir  comme  la  mart,  doux  comme  V amour,  chaud 
comme  Tenjer.1  "  We  drank  this  superb  coffee  in  thick 


The  Women  of  New  Orleans         217 

cups  on  a  table  covered  with  American  cloth,  but  it 
was  a  better  beverage  than  one  can  get  in  Dresden 
china  cups  in  New  York. 

The  old  market  is  wonderfully  picturesque  and  a 
veritable  feast  of  colour.  The  heaps  of  wild  flowers, 
goldenrod,  pitcher  plant,  coxcomb,  purple  cyclamen 
and  wild  orchids  were  still  gleaming  with  the  dew  of  the 
early  morning.  The  fish  stalls  were  shimmering  mounds 
of  silver,  purple  and  blue,  with  strings  of  red  snappers 
hanging  above,  seemingly  carved  out  of  pink  coral. 
Grey  trout,  speckled  with  orange  and  scarlet,  were 
flanked  with  enormous  lobsters  and  greenish  grey  crabs. 
On  the  next  stall  were  pheasants  and  wild  turkeys,  with 
their  beautiful  rich  bronze,  gold  and  green  feathers. 
Golden  plover,  tiny  reed  birds,  wild  ducks  with  soft 
breasts  of  blue,  grey  and  green  made  a  shining  mass  of 
colour.  And  opposite  them  stood  a  table  of  richly  dyed 
Indian  baskets,  filled  with  smooth,  shining,  satiny, 
strong  beads,  deep  red,  pale  canary,  orange,  aqua 
marine,  scarlet,  and  pearl  colour  with  a  sheen,  like 
silver.  "Now  these  you  must  have,"  said  Ruth 
McEnery  Stuart,  touching  the  last,  "they  just  match 
your  gown. "  And  I  wore  away  a  long  string  of  dull 
silver-grey  beads. 

We  stopped  at  the  cathedral,  where  there  is  a  shrine 
to  Our  Lady  of  Lourdes,  and  as  we  walked  along  through 
the  French  quarter  Mr.  Beer  pointed  out  the  old  house 
built  for  Napoleon  when  the  Creoles  formed  a  plan  to 
rescue  him  from  St.  Helena,  which,  alas,  was  never 
carried  out.  On  Bienville  Street  in  an  old  pawn  shop, 
my  quick  eye  discovered  the  quaintest  ornament  in  the 
window,  a  pendant  composed  of  two  little  Egyptian 
figures,  doubtless  Cleopatra  and  Mark  Antony,  in  blue, 
mauve,  and  white  enamel.  The  man  held  in  his  hand 


218  My  Beloved  South 

an  infinitesimally  small  fan,  cooling  the  air  for  the 
Egyptian  queen.  And  the  little  figures  in  profile  were 
surrounded  by  old  rose  diamonds  set  in  heavy  silver. 
I  did  want  that  peculiar  jewel  badly.  We  went  in  and 
asked  the  price;  the  dealer  said  it  was  fourteenth  cen- 
tury work,  and  of  course  it  was  far  beyond  my  purse. 
It  filled  with  regret  the  generous  heart  of  Ruth  McEnery 
Stuart  that  she  could  not  immediately  present  it  to  me, 
but  later  I  forgot  even  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  when  we 
sat  down  to  a  dejeuner  a  la  fourchette  in  a  splendid  red 
and  gold  restaurant  and  ordered  soft-shell  crabs,  hot 
rolls,  black  coffee  and  gumbo ! 

There  is  continual  entertaining  of  an  easy  agreeable 
sort  going  on  in  New  Orleans.  Mrs.  Eustace  has  a 
beautiful  old  house,  with  a  splendid  hall  forty  feet  long 
and  enormous  rooms  on  either  side,  which  accommodate 
any  number  of  people  comfortably.  Mrs.  George  Pen- 
rose,  a  charming,  pretty  woman,  is  distinguished  for  her 
lunches  and  her  black  butler,  who  has  the  manners  of  a 
courtier.  Mrs.  Norvin  Trent  Harris,  whose  husband,  a 
famous  shot,  can  talk  more  entertainingly  of  birds  and 
beasts  than  any  sportsman  I  have  ever  met,  keeps  open 
house.  And  there  are  people  in  New  Orleans  of  divers 
interests,  musicians,  poets,  journalists,  writers  and 
ardent  suffragists,  of  whom  one,  Miss  Gordon,  has  done 
excellent  work  for  the  Cause,  and  a  goodly  sprinkling 
of  delightful,  soft-spoken  Creoles,  bankers,  and  cotton 
kings, — in  fact,  society  is  as  varied  as  one  would  have 
it,  and  both  the  men  and  women  have  easy  gracious 
manners.  I  regretted  not  meeting  Grace  King,  an  au- 
thority on  the  history  of  Louisiana  and  a  most  entertain- 
ing author.  Cornelius  Donovan,  the  engineer  of  the 
mouth  of  the  Mississippi,  who  for  years  has  been  study- 
ing the  vagaries  of  that  uncertain  stream,  offered,  if  I 


The  Women  of  New  Orleans         219 

remained  another  week,  to  take  me  down  the  river.  It 
is  always  changing,  that  wonderful  stream,  receding 
from  the  land  to-day,  and  overflowing  it  to-morrow. 
The  continual  uncertainty  of  its  movements,  lends  a 
constant  interest  to  the  vast  immensity  of  water.  I 
wanted  to  sail  away,  and  see  one  of  those  marvellous 
Gulf  days  so  poetically  described  by  Laf cadio  Hearn : 

It  must  have  been  to  even  such  a  sky  that  Xenophon 
lifted  up  his  eyes  of  old  when  he  vowed  the  Infinite  Blue  was 
God ; — it  was  indeed  under  such  a  sky  that  De  Soto  named 
the  vastest  and  grandest  of  Southern  havens  Espiritu  Santo, 
— the  Bay  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  There  is  something  unutter- 
able in  this  bright  Gulf  air  that  compels  awe,  something  vital, 
something  holy,  something  pantheistic;  and  reverentially 
the  mind  asks  itself  if  what  the  eye  beholds  is  not  the 
Infinite  Breath,  the  Divine  Ghost,  and  the  great  Blue  Soul 
of  the  Unknown.  All,  all  is  blue  in  the  calm, — save  the 
lowland  under  your  feet,  which  you  almost  forget,  since 
it  seems  only  as  a  tiny  green  flake  afloat  in  the  liquid 
eternity  of  day.  Then  slowly,  caressingly,  irresistibly,  the 
w'tchery  of  the  Infinite  grows  upon  you;  out  of  Time  and 
Space  you  begin  to  dream  with  open  eyes, — to  dr  f t  into 
delicious  oblivion  of  facts — to  forget  the  past,  the  present, 
the  substantial,  to  comprehend  nothing  but  the  existence 
of  that  infinite  Blue  Ghost  as  something  into  which  you 
would  wish  to  melt  utterly  away  forever.  ..." 


CHAPTER  XV 

OLD-WORLD   NEW   ORLEANS 

ALL  my  first  memories  of  New  Orleans  are  those  of 
pure  delight.  When  my  father,  on  our  way 
North  to  place  me  in  a  boarding-school,  stopped  a  fort- 
night there,  he  was  very  busy  attending  to  the  famous 
Gaines  case,  and  Mrs.  Delgado  offered  to  take  care  of 
the  lonely  little  girl  who  was  staying  at  the  hotel.  This 
lady  belonged  to  the  ancien  regime,  and  was  a  very 
grande  dame  indeed.  Her  complexion  was  pale,  she 
had  dark  hair,  clearly  cut  aquiline  features,  very 
beautiful  soft  dark  Creole  eyes,  and  her  hands  and  feet 
were  exquisitely  shaped  and  very  small.  In  later  years 
when  she  grew  stout  those  tiny  feet  refused  their  office 
and  she  ceased  to  walk,  going  everywhere  in  her  car- 
riage. She  dressed  exquisitely,  and  her  house  was 
no  less  perfect.  As  the  walls  were  very  thick,  and  the 
floors  covered  with  white  matting,  it  was  quite  cool  even 
in  very  warm  weather,  and  throughout,  the  rooms  were 
pervaded  with  an  odour  of  eau  de  cologne,  which  Mrs. 
Delgado  used  with  lavish  profusion. 

It  was  in  New  Orleans  that  I  had  my  first  feast  of 
the  theatre,  and  it  was,  I  am  sure  even  now,  an  exceed- 
ingly good  bill,  for  Joe  Jefferson  was  starring  in  The 
Cricket  on  the  Hearth.  I  already  knew  the  story  by 
heart,  and  everything  in  life  faded  away  from  me,  except 
the  sight  of  the  people  that  I  loved  so  well  really  living, 

220 


Old  Memories  and  John  221 

speaking,  and  unfolding  their  romance  before  my  ab- 
sorbed and  intense  vision. 

After  the  theatre  I  remember  my  dear  father  stopped 
at  a  little  cafe  on  Canal  Street  and  got  us  each  a  saucer 
of  gumbo,  a  dish  for  which  New  Orleans  is  famous. 
Okra  is  a  poetic  and  historic  plant,  as  it  grew  in  luxuri- 
ance along  the  banks  of  the  Nile  in  50  B.C.  Caesar, 
Mark  Antony,  and  Cleopatra  ate  of  it,  and  it  is  not  only 
a  succulent  vegetable,  with  its  tender  green  pod,  but  it  is 
worthy  of  being  grown  in  the  handsomest  flower  garden, 
for  its  lovely  bell-shaped  blossom  of  thick  canary- 
coloured  petals,  ending  where  they  join  the  stem  in  a 
deep  rich  shade  of  garnet.  Gumbo  is  not,  as  many 
people  suppose,  a  vegetable,  but  is  a  very  thick  soup 
made  from  a  combination  of  young  boiled  chicken  and 
okra,  flavoured  with  a  soupcon  of  garlic,  and  well 
seasoned  with  salt,  pepper,  and  rich,  fresh  butter — an 
unforgettable  delicacy.  Thackeray  found  the  name  so 
amusing  that  he  gave  it  to  his  negro  in  The  Virginians. 

In  one  greenhouse  in  England  this  plant  is  grown, 
for  Lord  Ashburnham  brought  the  seed  back  with  him 
from  Egypt,  and  at  a  time  when  I  was  ill,  a  little 
package  arrived  from  Ashburnham  Place,  and  when  I 
opened  it,  lo  and  behold,  to  my  surprise  and  grateful 
joy,  there  was  a  box  of  okra,  the  fresh  green  pods 
looking  exactly  as  if  they  had  been  grown  in  Louisiana. 

In  the  French  Quarter,  which  was  not  far  from  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Delgado,  a  young  negress  kept  a  little 
stand,  where  she  sold  pecan  pralines,  and  a  tiny  bouquet 
of  single  pinks  went  with  each  package  of  the  nut 
candy.  She  had  the  most  charming  animated  manners 
and  an  insinuating  smile,  but  she  only  spoke  a  sort  of 
patois  French  which  I  did  not  understand.  Her  dress 
was  of  dark  blue  cotton,  sprinkled  with  little  white  dots, 


222  My  Beloved  South 

and  she  wore  a  white  fichu,  a  string  of  red  coral  beads 
round  her  neck,  and  on  her  head  a  gay  plaid  handker- 
chief. 

Another  interesting  personality  whom  I  never  forgot 
was  a  tall  man  with  soft  brown  eyes  and  brown  whiskers. 
He  wore  the  Confederate  grey,  and  the  little  button  of 
the  Southern  Cross  of  the  Confederacy  on  the  lapel  of 
his  coat.  His  shirt  was  spotlessly  clean,  with  cuffs 
which  he  turned  back,  and  he  played  a  triangle  to 
attract  customers.  He  carried  a  fascinating  large  blue 
box  strapped  across  his  broad  shoulders,  and  when  he 
lowered  it  there  was  a  fine  assortment  of  pretty  wafer 
biscuits  of  many  charming  colours.  The  topmost  of 
them  had  an  icing  of  pale  green,  pink  or  mauve,  while 
there  were  others  without  any  icing  at  all,  and  they 
were  all  as  crisp  and  toothsome  as  it  was  possible  for 
wafers  to  be.  But  the  little  musical  triangle,  which  he 
played  as  if  a  grasshopper  sang  faint  far-away  tunes, 
was  much  more  seductive  to  me  than  the  wafers.  My 
black  Mammy  played  the  instrument,  and  the  moment 
I  heard  the  slight  sweet  notes  I  ran  quickly  down  the 
stairs  and  was  out  in  the  street  to  make  a  selection  from 
his  wares,  for  the  musician  always  gave  his  little  cus- 
tomer "lagnieppe" — an  extra  wafer.  Other  children, 
too,  loved  the  triangle,  and  the  wafers  and  the  vendor.  I 
made  one  or  two  charming  friends  through  his  introduc- 
tion. One  little  girl  who  lived  two  streets  beyond  Mrs. 
Delgado  had  long,  much  admired,  keenly-envied  yellow 
curls,  and  before  we  parted  she  gave  me  a  lock  of  her 
hair. 

When  I  went  back  to  New  Orleans  I  looked  for  my  old 
friend.  Now  the  brown  whiskers  would  be  white,  I 
knew,  and  the  erect  shoulders  carrying  the  box  would 
be  bent ;  but  he  was  gone.  I  did  find  the  negro  woman 


Old  Memories  and  John  223 

still  selling  pecan  pralines,  her  head  as  white  as  cotton. 
She  is  of  a  great  age,  and  has  grown  peevish  and  im- 
patient; her  manners  are  not  so  good  nor  her  smile  so 
sweet  as  in  years  gone  by.  And  since  then  she  has 
learned  some  half-dozen  words  of  English. 

I  went  to  the  Hotel  De  Soto  on  my  arrival,  to  be  near 
my  life-long  friend,  the  Major.  He  said,  "I  want  to 
introduce  you  to  the  manager  of  the  hotel."  And, 
bringing  forward  an  exceedingly  good-looking  young 
man,  he  presented  him  as  Mr.  Alexander,  who  asked, 
"Were  n't  you  Miss  Betty  Paschal,  of  Texas?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "a  good  while  ago  I  was  Miss 
Betty  Paschal,  of  Texas." 

He  said,  "  My  name  is  John  Alexander,  and  we  come 
from  the  same  town  of  Austin. " 

" Then, "  I  said,  "you  are  a  relation  of  Dr.  Alexander, 
our  old  doctor  who  was  with  my  mother  when  I  was 
born." 

He  said,  "I  am  his  grandson." 

"Not  the  little  Johnnie  Alexander,"  I  asked,  "whom 
I  remember  as  a  child  being  shot  in  the  wrist?" 

He  held  out  his  right  hand.  The  wrist  was  scarred 
and  considerably  broader  than  the  other,  and  I  had  seen 
that  wound  dressed.  His  father  was  a  chemist  in  Aus- 
tin, and  this  baby,  just  learning  to  walk,  was  standing 
on  the  counter  holding  out  his  arms  to  his  grandfather 
when  a  desperado  walking  down  the  street,  jerked  out 
his  pistol  and  shot  at  a  man  standing  in  the  back  of  the 
shop.  The  bullet  missed  the  man  but  hit  the  baby. 
My  aunt's  house  was  nearest  to  the  chemist's,  he  was 
brought  in  to  have  the  wound  dressed,  and  I  remember 
running  to  the  kitchen  to  get  a  jug  of  warm  water  for 
the  doctor.  The  boy  who  shot  him  was  not  more  than 
sixteen  years  old  and  this  was  the  beginning  of  a  career 


224  My  Beloved  South 

of  crime.  He  subsequently  took  the  lives  of  a  number 
of  men  and  at  least  three  women,  beginning  with  a 
young  vaudeville  actress,  who  fell  in  love  with  him, 
and  after  he  had  left  her,  tried  to  see  him.  He  told  her 
if  she  ever  came  near  him  again  he  would  shoot  her. 
One  morning  at  a  hotel  in  San  Antonio  she  went  to  his 
bedroom  door  and  opened  it.  He  was  lying  in  bed  with 
a  pistol  by  his  side,  which  he  picked  up,  aimed  deliber- 
ately at  her,  and  she  fell  dead,  shot  through  the  heart. 

Johnnie  Alexander  made  my  stay  at  the  Hotel  De 
Soto  pleasant  and  comfortable.  And  my  faith  in 
the  old-time  negro  was  refreshed  and  revived,  for  the 
Major  has,  what  before  the  war  was  called  a  "body 
servant. "  John  is  quite  black,  with  very  kind,  amiable, 
foxy  eyes.  He  is  extremely  neat,  has  a  good  figure  and, 
dressed  in  the  Major's  well  cut  cast-off  clothes,  he 
makes  quite  a  fine  appearance.  He  came  to  my  room 
the  morning  after  my  arrival  and  said,  "  De  Major  sent 
me  to  say  dat  while  you  is  here,  I  am  to  come  two  or 
three  times  a  day  to  see  if  dar'  s  anything  I  kin  do  for 
you." 

I  said,  "I  am  sure  there  is,  John." 

"De  Major  was  talkin'  dis  mornin'  des  like  he  was 
gwine  ter  give  me  to  you,  but  he  can't  give  me  to  nobody, 
he  can  only  loan  me.  I  told  him  he  can  loan  me  to  you 
des  as  much  as  he  likes,  but  de  Major  can't  get  rid  ob 
me, "  he  said  with  a  chuckle,  "not  ef  he  was  to  try. " 

"You  must  take  good  care  of  the  Major,"  I  replied, 
"because  he  is  getting  on,  you  know,  in  years." 

"  Don't  say  dat,  for  de  Major  is  jes'  as  full  of  ambition 
as  he  kin  be, "  he  said,  "an*  he  suttenly  is  got  a  gallant 
heart.  Even  when  he  got  de  gout  he  puts  on  dem 
shiny  shoes  ob  his  (I  suttenly  does  make  de  Major's 
shoes  shine  like  a  crow's  wing) ,  an'  he  won't  even  let  me 


Old  Memories  and  John  225 

tie  'em  up  for  him,  he  is  des  as  ambitious  as  he  kin  be, 
and  not  only  is  he  got  a  gallant  heart,  but  he  is  got  a 
gallant  young  heart." 

I  said,  "That  is  what  I  have  heard,  John." 

John  chuckled  loudly  and  said,  "  I  tell  you  what  it  is, 
I  am  proud  ob  de  Major.  When  I  sends  him  out  in 
de  mornin'  dere  ain't  no  young  blade  in  New  Orleans 
what  is  any  better  turned  out,  den  what  de  Major  is.  I 
don't  let  no  speck  nor  spot  stay  on  him,  not  a  minute, 
I  tell  you  what,  when  he  is  walkin'  down  de  street 
even  right  young  girls  turns  dere  heads  to  look  at  de 
Major." 

I  said,  "John,  I  'm  afraid  you  are  leading  the  Major 
into  temptation." 

John  gave  a  loud  guffaw. 

"No'm,"  he  said,  "I  ain't  don  dat  but  sometimes 
he  's  right  hard  to  manage. " 

"John,"  I  said,  "I  want  a  laundress,  and  I  have  six 
pairs  of  gloves  to  be  cleaned." 

"Yassum, "  he  said,  "I  knows  des  de  best  kind  of  a 
cleaner,  and  I  know  a  laundress  what  can  make  your 
clothes  look  des  like  new. " 

When  John  returned  with  my  clothes  and  gloves,  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  himself  was  my  laundress 
and  also  my  glove  cleaner.  The  gloves  were  enormously 
stretched,  a  good  deal  more  soiled  than  when  I  sent 
them,  and  the  charge  for  cleaning  was  forty  cents  a 
pair. 

"John,"  I  said,  "isn't  that  an  awful  price  for 
gloves?" 

He  replied,  "Yassum,  'deed  it  is,  and  I  jes'  talked 
wid  dat  woman  wid  such  eloquence  dat  she  's  gone  out 
ob  bisniss,  an'  I  'spect  she  's  gone  clean  away  from  New 
Orleens.  I  never  did  give  any  woman  such  a  dressin' 

15 


226  My  Beloved  South 

down  an'  a  trouncin'  wid  my  tongue  as  I  give  dis  here 
same  woman." 

"Look  at  my  clothes,"  I  said,  "they  are  very  badly 
done.  I  heard  that  laundresses  in  New  Orleans  were  so 
good." 

"Yassum, "  he  said,  "dey  is  good,  but  dis  woman 
done  los'  her  husband.  He  died  des  as  she  was  begin- 
ning to  wash  your  close  an'  de  poor  creature's  in  sich 
grief  I  could  n't  bear  to  scol'  her  so  I  jes'  brought  'em 
along.  I  'spect  dem  close  was  sprinkled  wid  tears." 

I  paid  for  the  clothes  and  I  paid  for  the  tears,  but 
I  made  up  my  mind  that  John  had  better  confine  his 
offices  to  the  Major.  I  could  not,  however,  get  rid  of 
his  assiduous  attentions.  And  one  morning  he  told  me, 
with  a  great  look  of  expectation  in  his  eyes,  that  he  was 
going  to  be  married  in  four  days.  I  knew  what  the  look 
meant  quite  well — a  wedding  present.  "Why,  John," 
I  said,  "I  thought  you  were  a  confirmed  old  bachelor." 

"So  I  is,  Miss  Betty,"  he  said  (he  had  dropped  the 
Madam  and  got  to  an  affectionate  "Miss  Betty"),  "but 
de  Major  don't  like  my  runnin'  roun',  and  you  know  a 
man  is  des  'bleeged  to  run  'round,  lessen  he  's  married. 
De  Major  is  one  of  dese  here  moral  men,  he  say  men 
oughter  to  stay  home  in  de  evenin's,  so  I  'm  gwine  to  git 
a  home  to  stay  in.  I  don't  want  to  git  married,  I  'm 
des  marryin'  to  please  de  Major.  An'  hits  one  of  dese 
here  sensible  kind  ob  marriages  too.  De  lady  what  I  am 
gwine  ter  marry  is  'bout  de  bes'  cook  in  New  Orleens, 
she  can  wash  wid  any  ob  dese  here  French  women, 
and  she  's  des  as  neat  as  a  pin  'bout  de  house ;  but  I 
must  be  bringing  down  dat  pineapple  what  I  got  fur 
you." 

When  John  brought  down  the  pineapple  it  was  stale 
and  over-ripe.  I  don't  think  he  had  been  to  market  for 


Old  Memories  and  John  227 

it,  but  had  bought  it  from  a  huckster  on  the  street  for 
three  cents. " 

"John,"  I  said,  "isn't  this  pineapple  rather  a  poor 
one  for  a  good  marketer  to  buy?" 

He  said,  "Yassum,  Miss  Betty,  dat 's  de  Major's 
fault.  I  done  tole  him  to  let  me  go  to  market  an'  he 
done  sent  me  to  one  ob  dese  fruit  shops  kept  by  a 
Italian,  an'  dere  ain't  no  'pendence  in  de  roun'  world 
to  be  put  in  dese  here  furriners.  You  can't  trust  'em 
for  a  single  minute.  De  pineapple  what  I  said  I  'd  take 
was  all  right,  but  dis  here  man  done  change  it  for 
another,  when  he  put  it  in  de  bag.  I  thought  you  was 
in  a  hurry,  so  I  did  n't  take  it  back,  I  des  cut  it  up. " 

And  never  once  did  he  supply  me  with  fresh  fruit. 
The  Major  confided  to  me  that  his  only  grievance 
against  John  was  his  extraordinarily  bad  memory  when 
it  came  to  accounts,  his  laxity  in  putting  down  on  paper 
any  money  that  he  spent  and  his  never  bringing  back  a 
receipted  bill.  But  there  was  never  anything  in  the 
world  like  the  diplomatic  excuse  which  John  always  had 
ready.  I  gave  him  two  dollars  as  a  wedding  present, 
but  the  Major  has  since  written  to  tell  me  of  the  post- 
ponement of  the  marriage.  All  the  employees  in  the 
Major's  office  had  given  him  sums  of  money  and  by  the 
time  he  is  again  to  be  married  a  second  contribution 
will  be  levied.  Never  have  I  seen  anyone  who  under- 
stood the  art  of  flattery  better  than  John.  Every 
morning  he  told. me  I  was  much  younger  and  better 
looking  than  the  day  before;  that  his  happiness  would 
be  complete  if  I  should  decide  to  live  in  New  Orleans; 
that  the  climate  agreed  with  me,  that  everybody  in  the 
hotel  loved  me,  that  the  Major's  spirits  and  appetite 
had  improved  since  I  came,  in  fact  every  conceivable 
amiable  lie  possible  of  invention  he  heaped  upon  me. 


228  My  Beloved  South 

He  supplied  me  with  withered  flowers  and  stale  fruit. 
He  kept  me  waiting  for  my  clean  clothes  and  gloves; 
he  cheated  me  out  of  my  change  and  was  hours  in  doing 
any  small  errand.  Nevertheless,  I  had  a  sort  of  easy- 
going liking  for  him;  he  was  so  very  transparent,  so 
really  without  guile. 

One  afternoon  I  was  sitting  in  the  hotel  waiting  for 
him  to  return  from  the  post-office  when  I  noticed  com- 
ing down  the  corridor  a  clean-shaven,  rather  stout, 
kindly  looking  man  carrying  in  one  hand  a  lily  and  in 
the  other  an  exquisite  rose.  He  stopped,  saying,  "  Lady, 
may  I  present  this  flower  to  you?"  and  handed  me  the 
rich  red  rose. 

"Perhaps  you  do  not  know  this  variety,"  he  said; 
"it  is  a  difficult  one  to  find,  for  they  are  going  out  of 
fashion.  It  is  the  Napoleon  rose  and  was  at  one  time  a 
great  favourite  in  New  Orleans,  where  as  you  know, 
Napoleon's  memory  is  still  warmly  cherished.  This 
is  the  rose  which  he  asked  to  have  sent  to  St.  Helena 
from  France,  and  he  planted  it  there  with  his  own  hands. 
See  what  a  marvellous  flower  it  is;  observe  the  tender- 
ness of  the  stem ;  look  at  the  perfect  petals, — they  seem 
to  be  cut  out  of  ruby  velvet, — and  note  how  this  single 
blossom  perfumes  all  the  air.  It  is  a  pity  that  more 
attention  is  not  given  to  these  roses,  because  they  grow 
rarer  every  year.  I  present  this  to  you  in  memory  of 
Napoleon. " 

I  said,  "I  accept  it  from  you  and  from  him.  You 
seem  to  be  fond  of  flowers. " 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "flowers  are  my  friends.  I  go  to 
a  flower  shop  every  morning  to  regale  my  soul  and  to 
provide  myself  with  a  little  perfumed  friendship  for  the 
day.  If  I  had  to  do  without  my  cup  of  coffee  or  without 
my  rose,  I  would  give  up  my  coffee. " 


Old  Memories  and  John  229 

And  he  made  me  a  low  bow  and  went  away,  and 
although  I  saw  him  almost  every  day  in  the  hotel  and 
he  looked  kind  and  friendly,  we  did  not  have  any 
further  conversation.  But  I  shall  not  forget  him,  for 
what  better  introduction  can  any  man  have  than  a 
Napoleon  rose? 

How  eager  I  was  to  explore  that  fascinating  city 
again.  The  very  morning  after  my  arrival  found  me  at 
nine  o'clock  in  one  of  the  public  automobiles,  making  a 
hurried  tour  to  revive  my  memory  of  the  old  French 
Quarter  and  see  the  many  changes  in  the  more  modern 
city.  The  car  was  full  of  tourists  and  the  guide  shouted 
with  a  strong  voice  through  a  megaphone.  Nothing  of 
his  intonation  remains  in  my  memory  except  his  reply 
to  a  tourist  who  asked,  as  we  entered  one  of  the  beauti- 
ful cemeteries,  what  the  four  figures  kneeling  at  the 
corners  at  the  base  of  a  tall  marble  shaft  represented. 
He  said  the  monument  was  erected  by  Mr.  Moriarity, 
and  that  the  four  figures  represented  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charity,  and  Mrs.  Moriarity. 

A  large  proportion  of  the  tourists  were  Northern 
people  and  we  stopped  in  front  of  a  very  large  old- 
fashioned  house  with  galleries  on  every  side.  The 
house  was  white,  with  heavy  green  shades  such  as  were 
used  in  the  old  Creole  quarters;  there  was  a  grove  of 
orange  trees  leading  to  the  gate,  groups  of  oleander  and 
tall  magnolias  in  splendid  leaf  and  blossom  in  a  pleasant 
garden  surrounding  it.  An  old  grey-haired  Mammy, 
hemming  a  little  white  frock,  sat  with  her  foot  on  the 
wheel  of  a  perambulator  taking  care  of  a  sleeping  baby, 
while  five  or  six  children  were  tumbling  and  playing 
about  together.  It  was  a  pretty  scene  of  peace  and 
Southern  life. 

The  guide  said:  "  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  we  stop  here, 


230  My  Beloved  South 

not  to  see  the  house,  although  it  is  a  fine  one,  but 
because  four  generations  live  happily  in  it, — a  great- 
grandmother  who  was  married  when  she  was  fifteen, 
two  grandmothers  and  a  mother,  whose  children  are 
playing  in  the  garden.  I  have  heard,"  he  said,  "that 
some  folks  don't  get  along  with  their  families,  but 
here  in  the  South  we  are  learned  to  look  after  the  old 
people,  and  we  expect  to  do  it  as  long  as  we  live,  for 
they  are  our  kin." 

Just  then  a  very  old  lady  with  perfectly  white  hair 
came  down  the  steps  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  tall, 
charming  looking  octoroon  maid.  One  of  the  children 
ran  to  take  her  other  hand,  saying,  "Gran,  Gran,  let 
me  help  you. "  So  I  suppose  this  was  the  great-grand- 
mother, and  it  was  the  pleasantest  and  the  most  refresh- 
ing picture  that  I  saw  in  New  Orleans. 

In  the  park  the  old  landmarks  are  the  same.  The 
great  live-oaks  with  their  wealth  of  Spanish  moss,  under 
whose  branches  duels  were  fought,  remain  unchanged, 
and  on  many  tombs  in  the  old  French  cemetery  of 
St.  Louis  will  be  found,  "Mort  sur  le  Champ  d'Hon- 
neur,"  or  "  Victime  de  Thonneur,"  in  memory  of  the  gay 
cavaliers  who  met  their  death  under  these  noble  trees. 
The  French  Quarter  has  perhaps  grown  a  little  shabbier. 
The  old  houses  are  still  made  attractive  by  the  inner 
court  and  quaintly  shaped  flower  beds,  with  a  clipped 
centrepiece  of  spitti-sporum,  that  delightfully  odorous 
shrub  of  the  South,  and  borders  of  sweet  violets,  jon- 
quils, lilies,  amaryllis,  fragrant  myrtle  and  cape  jessa- 
mine. These  old-fashioned  blooms  still  perfumed  the 
narrow  street  with  their  sweetness.  I  was  looking  so 
longingly  at  one  of  these  gardens  that  a  pretty  Creole 
girl  gave  me  a  little  nosegay.  The  old  placards,  "  Cham- 
bres  Garnies,"  dangled  from  the  balconies,  half -hidden 


The  Vieux  Carre  and  Antique  Shops  231 

by  flowering  vines,  and  everywhere  the  French  language 
is  heard  or  the  English  tongue  spoken  with  the  prettiest 
imaginable  French-Creole  accent. 

Antique  shops  in  the  Vieux  Carre  are  perilously 
enticing.  Every  memory  of  my  childhood  seems  to  be 
embodied  in  these  shabby  old  shops  with  their  varied 
contents,  carved  rosewood  furniture  covered  with  worn 
French  brocade;  little  work-tables  with  flaps  letting 
down  on  either  side  and  two  drawers  with  glass  knobs 
that  were  in  every  Southern  lady's  bedroom;  little,  low 
four-legged  rosewood  footstools,  covered  with  moth- 
eaten  embroidery;  old  square  pianos,  tall  heavy  can- 
dlesticks in  sets  of  four  which  were  used  on  every 
supper-table,  and  splendid  candelabra  of  ormolu  with 
their  tinkling  weight  of  triangular  crystals.  In  the 
porches  of  the  South,  tall  glass  cylinders  used  to  encircle 
candles.  A  pair  of  these  proved  irresistible;  I  bought 
them  and  shipped  them  to  England.  Then  there  were 
the  old-fashioned  French  coloured  steel  engravings — I 
remember  a  set  of  these  called  "Le  Manteau, "  in  my 
mother's  bedroom.  In  the  first,  a  tall,  slender,  exquisite 
gentleman  in  a  cavalry  uniform,  with  little  side-whiskers, 
splendid  cap  and  a  long  full  cloak,  was  wooing  a  young 
lady  in  a  white  Swiss  muslin  hobble  skirt,  pink  sash, 
and  a  bunch  of  curls  on  either  side  of  her  round,  rather 
foolish  face.  In  the  next  picture  she  is  eloping  from  a 
white  chateau  in  a  pink  muslin  gown,  and  "Le  Man- 
teau" envelops  her  form,  as  well  as  the  soldier's.  In 
the  third  picture  she  is  sitting  with  a  curly-headed  child 
resting  against  her  knee,  dressed  in  widow's  weeds,  still 
wearing  "Le  Manteau"  which  was  apparently  her 
husband's  only  legacy.  In  the  last  picture,  with  a  long 
black  veil  floating  over  "Le  Manteau"  and  holding  the 
chubby  infant  by  the  hand,  she  is  walking  up  the  steps 


232  My  Beloved  South 

of  the  chateau,  where  I  certainly  hope  she  found  refuge 
and  forgiveness.  I  always  thought  the  story  incom- 
plete. The  last  one  should  have  had  "Le  Manteau" 
hanging  up  in  the  hall,  the  lady  free  from  it  at  last,  she 
in  her  father's  arms,  and  the  grandmother  embracing 
the  small  boy. 

The  window  of  one  of  those  shabby  shops  in  Royal 
Street  displayed  an  artfully  seductive  placard  over  two 
cups  and  saucers,  two  plates,  and  a  little  jardiniere  of 
exquisite  and  original  design.  The  china  was  trans- 
parent and  very  white,  with  lines  of  black,  narrower 
at  the  base  than  at  the  top,  running  vertically  on  all  the 
pieces,  and  softened  on  either  side  by  a  lace-like  tracery 
in  gold  that  converged  in  a  little  disc  of  gold  lace  in  the 
centre.  Underneath  was  written  in  a  fine,  old-fashioned 
French  hand,  "Faience  de  Diane  de  Poitiers,"  and  in 
parentheses,  ("La  Duchesse  de  Valentinois"),  so  the 
vendor  knew  something  of  history.  I  went  into  the  shop 
to  ask  the  price,  which  I  knew  beforehand  would  be  far 
beyond  my  purse,  and  the  distinguished-looking,  white- 
haired  little  Creole  lady  said,  "  It  is  dear;  but,  Madame, 
it  is  veritable,  it  bears  the  colours  of  the  Duchesse  de 
Valentinois,  who  never  left  off  mourning  for  her 
husband,  Monsieur  de  Breze. " 

"Yes,  Henri  II,"  I  said,  "wore  her  colours,  black 
and  white,  at  the  tournament  when  he  was  fatally 
wounded." 

She  smiled  and  said,  "Then  Madame  is  a  student  of 
French  history?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "but  I  know  something  of  it  from  a 
dear  Irish  friend,  Mrs.  Emily  Crawford,  who  has  lived 
in  France  forty  years.  She  gave  me  a  little  lecture  on 
famous  Frenchwomen  one  day  when  we  walked  in  the 
garden  of  the  Tuileries.  '  It  was  through  her  buoyant 


The  Vieux  Carre  and  Antique  Shops  233 

health,'  she  said,  'that  Diane  de  Poitiers,  although 
nineteen  years  older,  kept  her  dominion  for  so  many 
years  over  Henri  II.  She  was  a  woman  far  in  advance 
of  her  times.  She  bathed  daily  in  tepid  water  when 
other  women  scarcely  bathed  at  all ;  she  was  an  intrepid 
horsewoman,  she  invented  athletic  exercises,  she  drank 
cold  water,  and  she  ate  simple  food.  She  was  a  cheerful 
philosopher;  and  above  all  things  men  value  cheerful- 
ness— it  makes  them  comfortable.  The  infidelities  of  her 
royal  lover  disturbed  her  but  little.  She  knew  her  power, 
and  felt  sure  of  his  return,  and  although  Catherine  de' 
Medici,  his  queen,  bore  him  ten  children  and  was  an 
astute  statesman,  she  never  dislodged  Diane.'" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Creole  lady,  "Diane  was  a  great 
woman.  And  the  faience,  Madame?" 

I  took  out  a  little  book  and  wrote  down  her  name 
and  address. 

"Madame,"  I  said,  " if  I  am  ever  rich  these  relics  shall 
be  mine.  I  cannot  afford  to  buy  them  just  now,  but  I 
can  have  visions.  These  addresses  are  all  those  of  my 
future  treasures.  This  is  a  quaint  little  shop  in  the 
square  of  St.  Mark's  in  Venice,  where  there  is  a  Doge's 
bottle  of  gold  and  crystal;  and  here,  at  The  Hague,  a 
small  squat  clock  of  old  silver,  with  a  wreath  of  pink 
enamelled  roses,  is  waiting  for  me.  But  at  the  present 
moment  I  would  forfeit  all  of  my  dreams  for  the 
faience  of  Diane  de  Poitiers." 

There  was  a  little,  old,  inexpensive  oil  portrait  of  the 
Due  de  Choiseul  in  a  battered  frame  which  she  offered 
me  as  a  bargain,  for  the  history  of  Louisiana  does  not 
make  the  picture  easy  of  sale.  Louis  XV  saved  him, 
but  not  New  Orleans. 

"You  will  be  damned,  Choiseul,"  said  Louis  to  his 
Prime  Minister. 


234  My  Beloved  South 

"And  you,  sire?" 

"I?  Oh,  I  am  different,  I  am  the  Anointed  of  God. " 
And  all  France  laughed  and  applauded,  for  wit  is 
allowed  there ;  but  if  one  of  England's  kings  said  lightly 
that  he  was  the  Anointed  of  God,  the  nation  would  be 
shocked,  from  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  to  the 
humblest  subject.  No  public  jokes  are  allowed  in 
England  or  in  America;  the  door  of  the  castle  or  the 
cottage  in  these  countries  must  be  closed  on  wit. 

The  amiable  little  lady  bade  me  a  smiling  farewell, 
saying,  "Adieu,  Madame,  bonne  chance,  et  revenez  le 
plus  tot  possible,  avec  la  bouteille  du  Doge  et  la  pendule 
de  la  Hollande  pour  la  faience  de  Diane." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  RUSSIAN  ROMEO  AND  JULIET 

He  that  is  stricken  blind  cannot  forget 
The  precious  treasure  of  his  eyesight  lost. 
Show  me  a  mistress  that  is  passing  fair, 
What  doth  her  beauty  serve  but  as  a  note 
Where  I  may  read,  who  pass'd  that  passing  fair? 
Farewell;  thou  canst  not  teach  me  to  forget. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

THE  history  of  New  Orleans  is  a  series  of  the  most 
romantic  and  delightful  episodes,  connecting  this 
fascinating  city  with  the  great  romances  of  the  world. 
Where  can  a  more  beautiful  story  be  found  than  that 
of  this  latter-day  Romeo  and  Juliet,  who  lived  in  1712? 

The  Duke  of  Brunswick,  Wolfenhuttel,  was  the 
father  of  a  daughter  called  Charlotte.  She  was  beauti- 
ful, tall  and  slight,  with  a  regal  crown  of  fair  hair.  She 
sang  charmingly,  was  very  accomplished,  possessed 
a  most  tender,  sympathetic  nature,  perfect  health, 
high  spirits,  and  at  the  same  time  she  was  docile  and 
obedient.  Naturally  every  one  in  the  little  duchy 
loved  her.  Attached  to  her  father's  court  was  a  hand- 
some young  Frenchman,  the  Chevalier  d'Aubant,  a  man 
of  a  passionate  yet  faithful  temperament — oh,  rare 
combination ! 

It  had  not  been  necessary  for  these  two  exquisitely 
attuned  human  beings  to  speak  of  love;  they  felt  it,  it 
surrounded  them,  it  was  in  the  air  and  in  the  flowers, 

235 


236  My  Beloved  South 

and  it  bloomed  with  exotic  radiance  in  their  two  young 
hearts.  D'Aubant  would  have  been  an  acceptable 
suitor  in  her  father's  eyes,  for  he  was  not  only  a  man  of 
family  but  he  possessed  a  small  fortune,  and  life  was 
charming,  quiet,  dignified,  and  quite  happy  in  this 
pretty  Lilliputian  court.  But  unfortunately  for  these 
devoted  lovers  an  unexpected  traveller  appeared  in 
Brunswick  in  the  person  of  Alexis,  the  eldest  son  of 
Peter  the  Great,  the  heir  apparent  to  the  crown,  who 
had  been  a  great  disappointment  to  his  father. 

He  was  unbelievably  stupid,  cruel,  and  wicked. 
There  was  no  vice  in  which  he  had  not  steeped  himself 
— the  palace  and  the  hovel  were  alike  to  him.  His 
father  was  in  despair  that  such  a  being  was  to  become 
the  future  ruler  of  the  millions  of  people  whom  he  had 
made  every  effort  to  enlighten  and  elevate,  and  as  a 
last  resource  he  sent  Alexis  on  a  long  journey. 

While  he  was  the  guest  of  the  Duke  of  Brunswick 
he  fell  in  love  with  the  charming,  aristocratic  young 
Princess  Charlotte.  Alexis  wrote  home  to  the  Czar, 
and  Peter  received  the  news  with  joy.  He  had  heard 
of  the  beauty,  the  virtue,  the  charm  of  Charlotte,  and  a 
hope  sprang  up  in  his  heart  that  her  noble  character 
and  example  might  have  an  influence  upon  his  im- 
possible son.  A  message  was  conveyed  at  once  to  the 
Duke  of  Brunswick  to  demand  his  daughter's  hand  in 
marriage. 

Being  a  tender  father,  his  heart  was  filled  with 
sorrow  for  the  future  of  his  sensitive,  carefully-reared 
daughter,  but  he  did  not  dare  to  refuse,  knowing  that 
Peter  the  Great  was  of  all  things  an  unrelenting  despot. 

It  was  only  necessary  to  look  into  the  cowardly  eyes 
of  Alexis  to  know  his  brutal  character,  and  there  were 
no  rejoicings  at  the  wedding.  It  was  a  most  pathetic 


A  Russian  Romeo  and  Juliet        237 

affair,  and  Charlotte,  who  had  done  her  father's  bidding 
and  sacrificed  herself  that  the  duchy  and  the  power  of 
the  Duke  of  Brunswick  might  remain  unimpaired, 
clung  to  her  father  like  a  drowning  woman,  and  had  to 
be  lifted  from  his  arms  into  the  carriage. 

Six  powerful,  wild  Mazeppa  horses  were  waiting  to 
speed  the  bride  and  bridegroom  to  Russia  to  the  great 
Court  of  St.  Petersburg,  and  a  rough  escort  of  Cossacks 
surrounded  the  travelling  coach.  There  was  one  who 
rode  like  mad,  always  ahead  of  the  others,  with  his 
thick,  shaggy  Tartar  cloak  pulled  down  close  over  his 
head  and  ears.  Occasionally  he  turned  and  came  back 
to  the  carriage  door,  and  whenever  he  did  so  Charlotte 
leaned  forward,  as  though  to  touch  his  friendly  cloak. 
This  Cossack  was,  of  course,  d'Aubant,  who  was 
following  her  into  Russia  with  a  broken  heart. 

After  the  betrothal  of  Charlotte  was  announced,  he 
had  scarcely  spoken  and  never  smiled,  but  he  made 
that  rough  journey  possible  for  her,  for  whenever  the 
horses  were  unruly  his  hand  was  the  first  to  restrain 
them,  and  he  was  always  rendering  the  Princess  some 
slight  service.  Once  she  slipped  in  getting  out  of  the 
carriage.  Blessed  moment !  for  one  brief  second  he  held 
her  lightly  in  his  arms.  When  he  put  her  down  this 
hooded  Cossack  swayed  like  a  tree  in  the  forest  that  is 
swept  by  a  mighty  tornado. 

On  the  entrance  of  the  bridal  pair  to  St.  Petersburg 
the  bells  rang  out  one  hundred  chimes,  the  people 
shouted  until  their  throats  were  hoarse,  and  a  dozen 
military  bands  gave  forth  inspiring  music  to  welcome 
the  beautiful  bride  of  Alexis  to  the  imperial  city.  The 
faithful  Cossack  rode  ahead  and  stood  by  the  door  with 
humble  mien  as  the  tall,  beautiful  woman  passed  by 
him.  That  night  her  faithful  German  maid  carried 


238  My  Beloved  South 

him  a  letter;  the  words  were  brief,  but  there  was  some 
comfort  in  them.    She  wrote : 

D'AUBANT: 

Your  disguise  was  not  one  to  me.  It  could  not  deceive 
my  heart.  Now  that  I  am  the  wife  of  another  know  for  the 
first  time  my  long-kept  secret — I  love  you.  Such  a  confes- 
sion is  a  declaration  that  we  must  never  meet  again. 

The  mercy  of  God  be  upon  us  both. 

CHARLOTTE. 

This  letter  contained  another  paper.  It  was  a  pass- 
port signed  by  the  Emperor,  and  it  gave  to  the  Cheva- 
lier d'Aubant  the  right  to  leave  the  empire  at  his  own 
convenience.  At  dawn  the  following  day  d'Aubant  was 
far  beyond  St.  Petersburg,  and  eventually  he  arrived 
in  Paris. 

But  he  was  always  sad  and  restless,  and  in  1718  he 
was  appointed  Captain  in  the  colonial  troops  that  were 
starting  for  Louisiana.  On  his  arrival  there  he  was 
stationed  in  New  Orleans,  and  although  a  favourite 
with  men  and  officers,  for  his  manner  was  exquisitely 
gentle  and  polite  and  his  face  expressed  resignation, 
yet  there  was  always  a  sorrowful  look  in  his  eyes  and 
he  evidently  preferred  solitude  to  the  gaiest  and  most 
brilliant  company. 

Near  New  Orleans  was  a  small  village  of  friendly 
Indians,  and  a  road  called  the  "Bayou  Road"  ran 
through  a  primeval  forest,  connecting  the  little  village 
with  the  French  settlement.  D'Aubant  became  a 
favourite  with  the  Indians,  and  they  gave  him  permis- 
sion to  build  a  rural  hut  on  the  outskirts  of  their  village. 
It  was  fashioned  of  fragrant  cedar  logs  with  a  thatched 
palmetto  roof,  and  was  furnished  with  rustic  chairs  and 
tables.  Above  the  mantelpiece  of  one  room  was  a  re- 


A  Russian  Romeo  and  Juliet        239 

markable  picture  in  a  heavy  carved  gilt  frame — a  full- 
length  portrait  of  a  wonderfully  beautiful  girl.  She 
was  dressed  in  flowing  white  and  the  face  was  that  of 
an  innocent  virgin ;  a  great  coil  of  fair  hair  crowned  her 
proud  head,  and  her  deep  blue  eyes,  filled  with  melan- 
choly, gazed  upon  a  pointed  crown  which,  instead  of 
lying  on  a  cushion,  rested  crushingly  upon  a  human 
heart. 

This  picture  must  have  been  painted  from  memory 
by  d'Aubant,  who  was  something  of  an  artist,  for  the 
likeness  to  the  Princess  Charlotte  was  faithful  and 
living,  as  if  a  man  had  wielded  the  paint-brush  with  his 
soul.  Whenever  he  could  be  spared  from  his  military 
duties,  all  his  time  was  spent  in  adoring  this  lifelike 
portrait,  which  was  tended  like  a  shrine.  Great  pots  of 
mimosa  and  magnolia  and  cre"pe  myrtle  stood  before 
it,  roses  and  lilies  filled  rude  but  beautifully  shaped 
vases  of  clay  made  by  the  Indians;  and  the  little  room 
was  fragrant  with  cedar  and  aromatic  with  the  odours 
of  the  South,  while  a  small  lamp  burned  perfumed  oil 
below  the  crown  and  the  heart,  and  cast  a  soft  light  on 
the  face  of  d'Aubant's  great  lady. 

Through  all  the  long  years  he  had  not  communicated 
with  her  except  to  send  her  a  magnolia  leaf  with  "  May 
1 6th"  written  upon  it — a  date  which  neither  of  them 
could  forget,  because  she  had  danced  with  him  on  that 
day  for  the  first  time  at  the  ball  given  on  her  birthday 
in  the  far-off  duchy  of  Brunswick;  and  there  were  two 
names  marked  upon  the  leaf — "D'Aubant"  and  "New 
Orleans." 

Charlotte's  future  destiny  was  settled  by  that  mag- 
nolia leaf.  Her  finer  nature,  her  exquisite  refinement, 
her  virtue,  her  religion  had  only  served  to  exasperate 
and  annoy  Alexis.  He  could  not  change  her,  he  could 


240  My  Beloved  South 

not  lower  her  pure  morality,  and  finally  his  irritation 
developed  into  brutality,  for  the  constant  injustice 
of  a  cruel  man  towards  a  delicate  woman  inevitably 
ends  in  hatred. 

Thinking  of  the  most  refined  insult  which  he  could 
put  upon  her,  Alexis  conceived  the  idea  of  compelling 
Charlotte  to  receive  at  court  a  kitchen  wench,  with 
whom  he  had  an  open  liaison, — a  broad-faced,  broad- 
hipped  person,  who  could  neither  read  nor  write,  of  low 
intellect  and  coarse  instincts  which  matched  his  own. 
He  knew,  of  course,  that  Charlotte  would  decline  to  re- 
ceive her,  as  she  did  with  firmness,  spirit,  and  dignity. 
As  the  last  words  of  refusal  left  her  pure  lips  he  rushed 
at  her  with  the  infuriated  cry  of  a  wild  animal,  his 
mouth  foaming  with  rage.  He  called  her  all  the  names 
of  his  loathsome  vocabulary.  He  tore  her  fair  hair,  and 
doubling  up  his  great  fists  knocked  her  down,  beating 
her  until  she  was  senseless.  And  in  all  that  court 
neither  nobleman  nor  gentlewoman  dared  to  interfere, 
for  Alexis  was  their  despotic  and  merciless  master.  It 
was,  however,  the  beginning  of  the  end  for  him.  He 
was  losing  control  of  himself,  and  not  many  years  after- 
wards Peter  the  Great,  justified  in  his  own  eyes  and 
acting,  as  he  said,  for  the  good  of  Russia,  with  his  own 
hands  put  his  inhuman  son  to  death. 

During  the  maniacal  attack  on  Princess  Charlotte, 
the  Countess  of  Konigsmark  had  made  a  step  towards 
her  friend  as  if  to  rescue  her,  for  she  alone  had  the 
complete  confidence  of  the  Princess,  and  served  her 
with  loyalty  and  a  great  love.  At  this  time  in  St. 
Petersburg  there  was  a  wonderful  apothecary,  who  had 
developed  his  talents  under  the  encouragement  of 
Peter  the  Great  until  it  was  said  that  he  could  almost 
raise  the  dead.  Certainly,  like  Friar  Laurence,  he  could 


A  Russian  Romeo  and  Juliet         241 

successfully  put  the  living  into  a  deathlike  sleep,  and 
Charlotte,  with  the  aid  of  her  friend  the  Countess  of 
Konigsmark,  obtained  from  him  a  little  phial.  The 
Princess  had  borne  all  that  she  could  bear  and  yet  live; 
if  death  came  she  would  welcome  it.  And  she  had  taken 
the  desperate  resolve  when  she  awoke  to  join  d'Aubant 
in  that  far-away  land,  kind  alike  to  aristocrat  and  to 
numbered  convict. 

The  Countess  of  Konigsmark  brought  the  draught, 
and,  with  a  prayer  to  God  for  mercy,  the  Princess 
Charlotte  eagerly  drank  it.  Then  she  felt 

A  cold  and  drowsy  humour;  for  no  pulse 
Shall  keep  his  native  progress,  but  surcease; 
No  warmth,  no  breath,  shall  testify  thou  liv'st; 
The  roses  in  thy  lips  and  cheeks  shall  fade 
To  paly  ashes;  thy  eyes'  windows  fall, 
Like  death,  when  he  shuts  up  the  day  of  life. 
Each  part,  deprived  of  supple  government, 
Shall  stiff,  and  stark,  and  cold  appear,  like  death; 
And  in  this  borrowed  likeness  of  shrunk  death 
Thou  shalt  continue  two  and  forty  hours, 
And  then  awake  as  from  a  pleasant  sleep. 

The  funeral  of  Charlotte  was  even  more  magnificent 
than  the  sumptuous  f£te  of  welcome  to  St.  Petersburg. 
There  was  a  great  gilded  hearse  with  waving  sable 
plumes,  a  sound  of  muffled  drums,  an  impressive 
cathedral  service  of  barbaric  music  and  clouds  of  in- 
cense, the  intoning  of  many  gorgeously-robed  priests, 
and  then  the  quiet  of  the  vault.  Through  it  all  Char- 
lotte slept  her  deathlike  sleep,  with  her  hands  crossed 
and  cold  in  their  waxlike  rigidity. 

The  face  of  the  Countess  of  Konigsmark  was  white 
and  fixed  with  anxiety.  She  had  much  to  do;  permis- 

16 


242  My  Beloved  South 

sion  had  been  granted  her  to  sit  by  the  side  of  her 
beloved  friend,  and  there  in  the  chill  vault  she  waited 
for  the  blue  lips  to  change  to  a  soft  rose,  for  the  stiffened 
eyelids  to  relax  to  mobility,  for  the  proud  eyes  to  open 
once  more  upon  this  tragic  world. 

When  Charlotte  woke  she  was  weak  and  needed  wine 
and  food,  but  Hope  warmed  her  heart  to  life  and  a 
sense  of  elation  gave  her  palsied  limbs  strength.  She 
belonged  to  herself  now,  and  to  no  other.  The  Princess 
Charlotte  was  dead. 

All  Europe  rang  with  the  news,  but  a  woman,  young, 
beautiful,  nameless  and  free,  lived;  a  woman  carrying 
deathless  fidelity  hi  her  heart,  a  woman  whose  soul 
whispered  to  another  soul  thousands  of  leagues  away 
of  a  winged  love  and  a  swift  meeting. 

Simply  attired,  with  a  few  jewels  and  a  well-filled 
purse,  Charlotte  issued  from  the  tomb,  nameless, 
unknown,  but  warm,  living,  and  happy.  In  1721  two 
hundred  immigrants  arrived  in  New  Orleans,  among 
them  a  beautiful,  highbred  woman,  with  an  imperial 
crown  of  fair  hair.  She  had  never  spoken  her  name,  and, 
though  her  manners  were  gentle  and  unassuming,  she 
unconsciously  commanded  those  about  her,  and  they, 
as  unconsciously  recognising  her  as  one  above  them, 
obeyed.  Instinctively  they  felt  her  to  be  a  creature 
singled  out  by  the  gods  for  the  fulfilment  of  an  extra- 
ordinary destiny. 

On  arriving  at  New  Orleans,  she  said  she  had  a  letter 
to  the  Chevalier  d'Aubant,  and  she  was  told  he  was 
in  his  rural  retreat  near  the  settlement,  but  that  it 
would  not  be  necessary  for  her  to  go  so  far,  as  a  dozen 
willing  knights  offered  to  carry  him  her  message.  She, 
however,  declined  their  offers,  asking  only  for  a  humble 
guide,  and  a  black-eyed,  silent  Indian  led  her  to  the  forest. 


A  Russian  Romeo  and  Juliet         243 

It  was  a  tender,  tranquil  summer  evening  with  the 
long  rays  of  a  declining  sun  slanting  through  the  leaves. 
One  ray  penetrated  a  wide-open  door  and  illumined  a 
picture  of  herself.  D'Aubant,  in  a  reverential  atti- 
tude, was  gazing  upon  it  as  though  it  were  the  image  of 
a  saint,  when  a  shadow  darkened  the  doorway,  and 
he  looked  up.  A  woman  stood  before  him  with  out- 
stretched hands,  tear-filled  eyes,  and  soft  quivering  lips, 
a  woman  all  light  and  gladness,  with  the  purified  love 
and  longing  of  many  years  of  weary  waiting  in  her 
sweet  eyes. 

He  started  towards  her  and  then  stopped. 

"Oh,  God!"  he  cried,  "if  you  are  a  vision,  stay  with 
me;  if  a  woman,  comfort  my  starving  heart!" 

She  said  in  low,  tremulous  tones,  "I  am  a  woman— 
your  woman,  now  and  for  all  eternity. " 

In  a  moment  he  held  her  in  a  heavenly  embrace. 
Then  came  the  miraculous  explanation  of  her  presence 
there,  and  next  day  in  the  golden  dawn  of  early  morn- 
ing, in  a  rude  little  church,  they  were  married,  and  the 
bride  softly  whispered  her  one  name,  "Charlotte." 

But  there  are  no  secrets  in  the  whole  of  the  universe. 
People  personally  concerned  in  a  secret  fondly  imagine 
they  are  hiding  the  dread  truth,  but  even  at  that 
moment  the  world  discusses  it. 

Many  times  it  is  to  the  interest  of  all  concerned 
to  guard  a  secret,  but  the  wind  whispers  it  to  the  trees, 
the  trees  to  the  flowers;  the  flowers  are  gathered  and 
breathe  it  to  the  house.  And  it  is  possible  for  one 
mind  without  words  to  communicate  with  another. 
Charlotte  and  the  Chevalier  d'Aubant  certainly  re- 
mained silent.  Perhaps  the  Countess  of  Konigsmark 
told  the  secret  to  her  lover,  and  during  a  supper  with 
wine  flowing  like  water,  he  whispered  it  to  a  friend ;  or 


244  My  Beloved  South 

it  might  have  been  revealed  in  another  way.  There 
are  undoubtedly  people  in  the  word  gifted  with  second 
sight.  Perchance  some  sorceress  banished  from  France 
gazed  on  Charlotte  with  prescient  eye  and  divined  her 
history.  At  any  rate,  rumours  soon  began  to  be 
whispered  in  the  colony  about  this  wonderful  couple. 
They  were  regarded  with  so  much  furtive  interest  that 
d'Aubant  felt  they  would  be  safer  among  a  multitude, 
and  very  quietly  they  left  New  Orleans  for  Paris.  But 
in  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries  Marshal  Saxe  recognised 
Charlotte.  The  Chevalier  felt  there  was  danger.  By 
this  time  he  had  been  promoted  and  was  Major  of  his 
regiment,  and  at  his  request  he  was  transferred  to  the 
island  of  Bourbon.  Charlotte  accompanied  him,  and 
they  resided  there  for  a  long  period.  In  1754,  after 
more  than  thirty  years  of  perfect  married  happiness, 
d'Aubant  died,  leaving  Charlotte  with  one  daughter. 
She  survived  him  nearly  twenty  years,  and  in  the  end 
died  in  great  poverty. 

There  are  historians  who  doubt  this  story,  but  it  has 
always  been  credited  in  Louisiana,  and  Gayarr6  pre- 
sents it  most  graphically  in  his  delightful  history  of  the 
land  he  loved  so  well. 

The  swamp-land  all  around  New  Orleans  is  rapidly 
being  reclaimed.  Pretty,  quaint  little  houses  and 
bungalows,  brilliantly  painted,  are  being  built,  and 
the  outskirts  of  the  town  offer  a  gay  and  exotic 
appearance.  One  house  with  a  roof  of  orange  colour, 
was  painted  white,  with  cobalt  blue  shutters  and  a 
wide  blue  gallery.  It  was  a  daring  combination,  but 
under  the  intense  sapphire  sky  and  amid  the  surround- 
ing growth  of  tropical  green  it  was  not  unpleasing, 
or,  to  use  the  favourite  word  of  smart  London,  it  was 


A  Russian  Romeo  and  Juliet         245 

"amusing."  The  road  to  Lake  Pontchar train,  where 
there  is  a  club  and  a  tea  house  and  boats  of  divers  kinds 
for  hire,  is  now  lined  with  motors,  and  it  presents  a 
livelier  aspect  than  the  long  stretch  of  lonely  sands 
where,  when  Louisiana  belonged  to  France,  Des  Grieux 
and  beautiful  Manon  Lescaut,  the  immortal  heroine 
whether  of  reality  or  fiction,  journeyed  to  the  death  of 
one  and  the  everlasting  grief  of  the  other. 

All  the  world  knows  that  touching  story,  the  subject 
of  drama  and  opera,  the  inspiration  of  pictures  and 
statues  innumerable.  It  convinces  by  its  sincerity,  it 
flames  with  amorous  love,  and  is  undoubtedly  the 
truthful  revelation  of  the  soul  of  that  passionate  reck- 
less lover,  soldier,  and  priest,  the  Abbe  Prevost,  who, 
like  other  men  of  genius,  was  born  to  feel 

Time  flowing  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
And  all  things  moving  toward  a  day  of  doom. 

Manon  Lescaut  is  indeed  more  than  a  story ;  it  is,  in  its 
way,  a  symbol,  an  illustration  of  mere  passion  develop- 
ing into  love,  and  love,  with  its  infinite  tenderness  and 
sense  of  protection,  destroying  the  grossness  of  passion 
and  finally  ending  in  tragic  suffering  and  expiation.  It 
is  a  refreshing  vision  of  many  thirsty  souls  held  in  dur- 
ance vile  by  weak  and  sensual  bodies;  it  is  an  end 
devoutly  to  be  wished  but  rarely  attained. 

Romances  of  the  heart,  however,  are  not  the  only 
thrilling  episodes  connected  with  the  history  of  New 
Orleans.  There  is  a  very  moving  little  story  of  a  really 
noble  redskin  who  died  to  save  his  son.  A  Colapissa 
Indian  killed  a  Choctaw  chief  and  hid  himself  in  New 
Orleans.  The  Choctaws  followed  him,  found  him  out, 
and  demanded  him  from  the  Governor,  the  Marquis  de 
Vaudreuil,  who  at  first  refused  to  give  him  up.  When  he 


246  My  Beloved  South 

was  finally  forced  to  order  his  arrest,  it  was  found  that 
the  Indian  had  escaped.  His  old  father  then  appeared 
and  offered  his  life  to  the  Choctaws  in  place  of  that  of 
his  son.  After  a  powwow  the  offer  was  accepted.  The 
old  man  at  once  stretched  himself  on  the  trunk  of  a 
forest  tree,  and  a  mighty  Choctaw  chief  with  one  great 
blow  severed  his  head  from  his  body. 

I  have  always  thought  one  of  the  most  splendid 
arguments  against  capital  punishment — which,  if  neces- 
sary for  the  criminal,  who  is  only  one  man,  is  distinctly 
brutalising  to  the  jailors,  the  warders,  and  the  hangman, 
— was  the  tragic  action  of  a  noble  slave. 

When  Louisiana  was  a  colony  it  was  without  an 
executioner,  and  every  white  man  refused  the  office 
with  horror  and  loathing.  Finally  it  was  decided  that 
a  negro  blacksmith  must  be  forced  to  accept  it.  He  was 
a  man  of  herculean  strength  and  health,  called  Jeanot, 
who  belonged  to  the  Company  of  the  Indies.  He  was 
shoeing  a  horse  when  he  was  sent  for  and  given  his 
freedom.  His  heart  bounded  with  joy  at  the  unexpected 
news,  and  he  was  just  about  to  express  his  gratitude 
when  he  was  told  that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  be  a 
free  man  as  he  had  just  been  appointed  public  execu- 
tioner. He  groaned  in  agony. 

"Oh,  God,"  he  said,  "I  can't  be  that.  Let  me  be  a 
slave  again ;  I  '11  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  for  you. " 

When  they  refused  him  he  went  down  on  his  knees 
and  prayed  and  wept  in  anguish,  crying  out,  "I  will 
never  cut  off  the  head  of  a  man  who  has  done  me  no 
harm.  Never!  Do  not  ask  it!  I  will  die  rather  than 
do  it. "  But  his  masters  were  coldly  obstinate.  So  he 
got  up  from  his  knees  with  a  wild  and  desperate  look 
and  said: 

"Wait  one  minute." 


A  Russian  Romeo  and  Juliet        247 

He  ran  quickly  to  his  cabin,  picked  up  his  hatchet, 
laid  his  right  hand  on  a  block  of  wood,  and  with  his 
left,  cut  it  off  at  one  blow.  Then  returning  to,  the 
group  of  waiting  men,  he  held  out  the  bloody  stump 
silently  and  grimly  towards  them.  Quickly  the  wounded 
arm  was  bound  up  and  his  freedom  was  given  him. 

There  must  be  something  wrong  with  a  system  which 
places  such  a  stigma  as  the  executioner  bears  upon  a 
human  being.  Who  in  the  world  would  ever  invite  a 
hangman  to  tea?  Would  n't  it  be  a  horrible  blight 
upon  the  feast?  And  yet,  if  he  is  but  the  agent  for  the 
execution  of  strict  justice,  why  is  he  not  honoured? 

Because  in  our  hearts  we  know  that  only  God  has  the 
right  to  cut  short  human  life.  We  arrogate  too  much 
to  ourselves  when  we  hang  the  worst  criminal.  Im- 
prisonment for  life,  with  no  possibility  of  a  pardon, 
is  punishment  enough;  wrong,  injustice,  oppression, 
cruelty,  have  more  than  once  turned  the  merely  weak 
into  the  vicious  wicked.  Heredity,  circumstance,  en- 
vironment make  most  of  us  what  we  are. 

If  I  could  dwell 

Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 

He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 

While  a  bolder  note  than  his  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

How  thankful  we  should  be  if  our  lot  makes  us 
escape  without  breaking  the  laws  openly,  to  be  judged 
at  the  last  by  God,  and  not  by  man. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

AN  OLD-TIME  PLANTATION 

Oh!  hush  my  heart,  and 
Take  thine  ease, 
For  here  is  April  weather! 
The  daffodils  beneath  the  trees 
Are  all  a-row  together. 

REESE. 

ON  my  way  to  the  plantation  of  The  Magnolias  to 
visit  my  friend  Mary  Davis,  I  stayed  over  night 
at  Port  Gibson,  a  delightful  little  place,  all  valleys  and 
soft  rolling  hills,  with  a  wide,  grassy  main  street  shaded 
by  a  fine  avenue  of  cotton  trees,  clothed  in  the  tender, 
vivid  green  of  early  spring.  The  cool  umbrella-shaped 
trees,  called  the  Pride  of  China,  were  just  beginning  to 
open  their  purple  and  amethyst  blossoms,  perfuming 
the  air  with  their  unforgetable  pungent  odour.  In  my 
childhood  a  big  China  tree  with  its  wide-spreading, 
cool  branches  grew  just  outside  my  Aunt  Elizabeth's 
window.  How  often  have  I  seen  her  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, in  a  fresh  white  wrapper,  stretch  out  her  pretty, 
round  arm,  and  gather  a  lavender  blossom  for  her  belt. 
So  I  have  double  reason  for  my  love  of  this  beautiful 
tropical  tree, — the  dear  memory  that  it  holds  for  me 
and  the  charm  of  its  own  beauty. 

Port  Gibson  is  more  than  merely  a  pretty  town; 
it  is  the  birthplace  of  that  short-lived,   remarkable 

248 


An  Old-Time  Plantation  249 

Southern  genius,  Irwin  Russell,  lawyer  (who  though  a 
minor,  was  admitted  to  the  bar  after  a  brilliant  exam- 
ination, by  special  act  of  the  legislature),  wanderer, 
traveller,  author,  and  above  all  poet.  I  tried  to  find 
the  house  where  he  was  born,  but  the  people  I  asked 
knew  nothing  of  it.  In  spite  of  his  having  modelled  his 
poetic  style  on  Burns  and  the  English  poets,  he  was 
able  to  emancipate  his  mind  from  tradition  and  was 
really  the  first  American  author  who  truthfully  de- 
scribed the  life  and  character  of  the  negro.  There  has 
been  nothing  ever  written  more  full  of  movement,  more 
vivid  and  lifelike  than  "Fiddling  Josie, "  in  "Christmas 
Night  in  the  Quarters  ": 

Git  yo'  pardner,  fust  kwatillion! 
Stomp  yo'  feet,  an'  raise  'em  high; 
Tune  is,  "Oh:  dat  watermillion! 
Gwine  to  git  it  home  bime-bye." 
S'hite  yo'  pardners;  scrape  perlitely — 
Don't  be  bumpin'  gin  de  res' — 
Balance  all!  now  step  out  rightly; 
Alluz  dance  yo'  lebbel  bes'. 
Fo'wa'd  foah! — whoop  up,  niggers! 
Back  ag'in — don't  be  so  slow! — 
Swing  cornahs! — mind  de  figgers! 
When  I  hollers,  den  yo'  go. 
Top  ladies  cross  ober! 
Hoi'  on,  tell  I  take  a  dram — 
Gemmen  solo — yes  I 's  sober — 
Hands  around! — hoi'  up  yo'  faces, 
Don't  be  lookin'  at  yo'  feet! 
Swing  yo'  pardners  to  yo'  places! 
Dat 's  de  way — dat 's  hard  to  beat. 
Sides  fo'wa'd — when  you  's  ready — 
Make  a  bow  as  low  's  you  kin! 
Swing  acrost  wid  op'site  lady! 


250  My  Beloved  South 

Now  we  '11  let  yo'  swap  ag'in. 

Ladies  change! — shet  up  dat  talkin'; 

Do  yo'  talkin'  arter  while! 

Right  an'  lef ' ; — don't  want  no  walkin* — 

Make  yo'  steps,  and  show  yo'  style. 

What  character,  what  understanding,  what  reality, 
what  go,  is  in  this  inspired  jingle.  The  first  appreciative 
helping  hand  extended  to  him  was  that  of  the  Scribners, 
who  have  always  befriended  the  South,  and  they 
published  many  of  his  poems.  He  only  wrote  when 
impelled  by  inspiration  and  everything  he  left  will  live. 
He  died  at  twenty-six,  still  a  boy,  but  tired  of  life  and 
glad  to  rest. 

While  I  was  waiting  at  the  station  for  the  train, 
which  of  course,  in  Southern  fashion,  was  quite  an  hour 
late,  a  neat,  well-dressed,  pleasant-faced  woman  spoke 
to  me.  She  was  expecting  her  husband,  who  was,  she 
told  me,  "a  travelling  man."  She  pointed  to  a  pretty 
white  cottage  on  the  hill  and  said  she  had  so  little  to  do, 
only  her  housework  and  the  clothes  for  herself  and  two 
little  girls  to  make,  that  to  occupy  her  "idle  hours"  she 
had  taken  to  chicken  farming.  Yet  it  is  said  that 
Southern  women  are  lazy!  Fancy  a  woman  having 
"idle  hours"  with  her  own  housework  to  do  and  dress- 
making for  three  people.  "And  how,"  I  asked  her, 
"  have  you  succeeded  with  your  chickens?  "  "  Remark- 
ably well,"  she  said,  "too  well.  I  have  more  chickens 
than  I  want  and  about  two  hundred  eggs  a  day."  I 
advised  her  to  send  them  to  New  Orleans.  She  said 
she  had  not  thought  of  that. 

Port  Glass,  the  next  station  from  Port  Gibson,  was 
five  miles  from  the  plantation  of  The  Magnolias.  Mary 
had  arranged  in  case  of  my  arriving  unexpectedly  that 
a  neighbour  was  to  drive  me  over.  When  I  got  out  at 


An  Old-Time  Plantation  251 

Port  Glass,  which  is  really  only  a  good-sized  store,  I 
heard  a  loud  "Hello!"  and  a  gentleman  came  flying 
across  the  field  and  gave  me  the  welcome  of  an  old  friend, 
saying  I  was  to  come  to  his  house  for  a  mid-day  dinner, 
and  then  he  would  drive  me  to  the  plantation  in  his 
buggy  and  deposit  me  with  Mary.  "I  hope  you  are 
going  to  be  with  us  a  long  time, "  he  said.  "  Miss  Mary 
has  only  been  here  a  few  weeks;  the  plantation  is  too 
lonesome  for  her  since  she  lost  her  mother. "  We  had 
arrived  by  this  time  at  his  flower-wreathed  gate  and 
there  I  saw  the  sweetest  mortal  in  the  world — a  smart 
little  maiden  of  three,  in  white  frock,  red  shoes,  and 
a  little  white  sunbonnet  flecked  with  scarlet  spots. 
It  was  a  case  with  us  of  love  at  first  sight;  the  little 
woman  gave  me  the  warmest  embrace  and  nestled 
close  in  my  arms.  And  how  proud  she  was  of  her  gay 
morocco  shoes !  They  were  of  the  same  colour  as  those 
of  Madame  Octavia  Levert,  the  celebrated  Southern 
beauty,  who  was  such  a  belle  in  the  forties.  Mrs.  Clay 
has  described  her  as  creating  a  veritable  sensation  at  a 
ball  in  a  lemon-coloured  satin  gown,  a  wreath  of  coral 
on  her  dark  braids,  and  coral  morocco  shoes.  Imagine 
a  belle  of  1913  being  garbed  in  such  simple  fashion! 
Her  dress  must  be  embroidered  with  diamonds  and 
pearls,  with  satin  slippers  and  pearl  rosettes  to  match. 
Fashionable  ladies  of  the  present  day  would  scorn 
morocco  slippers,  even  for  the  bath. 

The  immediate  land  about  Mary's  house  is  four 
thousand  acres  in  extent.  It  is  four  miles  from  the 
border  of  the  plantation  to  her  front  door.  My  host 
made  a  short  cut  by  taking  the  back  road,  and  at 
last  we  reached  The  Magnolias,  a  charming  white 
house  with  many  windows,  green  blinds,  and  an  ample 
gallery  running  across  the  wide  front.  Mary  was  just 


252  My  Beloved  South 

finishing  her  toilet  and  her  buggy  was  waiting  to  go  to 
Port  Glass  to  meet  me.  What  a  welcome  she  gave  me ! 
For,  lo,  these  many  years  I  had  been  promising  to  come, 
and  as  they  rolled  relentlessly  on  Mary  had  at  last 
given  up  all  faith  in  my  promises,  but  Scipio,  never. 
Mary  is  not  older  than  I  am,  perhaps  she  is  even 
younger,  but  she  belongs  more  to  the  past,  having  lived 
so  much  with  her  mother  who  had  received  the 
old-fashioned  romantic  Southern  education.  This  ac- 
complished lady  played  the  guitar,  sang  pretty,  old- 
fashioned  ballads  to  the  end  of  her  life,  and  spoke  French 
with  a  delightful  Southern  accent.  She  read  a  great 
deal  of  poetry,  knew  Marmion  and  The  Lady  of  the  Lake 
by  heart,  had  exquisite  manners,  and  was  delicately 
pretty.  She  even  figured  in  a  Book  of  Beauty  of  famous 
Southern  women.  Living  in  the  days  when  there  were 
hosts  of  servants  to  do  everything,  she  knew  nothing 
about  the  practical  or  domestic  part  of  life  until  after 
the  death  of  her  husband,  when  she  began  to  manage 
her  own  plantation. 

Scipio,  the  foreman,  was  born  on  The  Magnolias  and 
except  for  one  or  two  trips  to  Vicksburg  he  has  never 
left  the  plantation.  He  can  neither  read  nor  write  but 
nevertheless  he  is  a  black  gentleman  and  a  very  intelli- 
gent man.  He  loves  in  theory  the  great  world,  and 
pictures  of  London  particularly  delight  him.  When  I 
send  the  Illustrated  London  News  to  Mary,  with  dukes 
and  duchesses  in  glad  array  standing  in  the  grounds  of 
Buckingham  Palace  at  a  garden  party,  Scipio's  face  is 
wreathed  in  smiles,  he  fairly  gloats  over  them.  But  he 
loves  a  ball  better.  Mary  had  a  lovely  photograph  of 
Queen  Alexandra  in  a  ball  gown,  which  mysteriously  dis- 
appeared. She  at  once  suspected  that  Scipio  had  bor- 
rowed it,  and  when  she  issued  an  edict  saying  that  the 


An  Old-Time  Plantation  253 

photograph  must  be  recovered,  it  suddenly  reappeared 
one  morning  and  Scipio  looked  pensive  all  that  day. 

I  met  Mary  in  New  York  on  her  annual  shopping 
tour.  With  her  grand  manner  one  might  have  thought 
that  she  had  a  portly  negro  coachman  and  footman 
waiting  outside  in  a  barouche  for  her  numerous  parcels, 
instead  of  having  to  use  like  other  strap-hangers  a 
crowded  Sixth  Avenue  street  car.  I  faithfully  promised 
her  then  that  this  time  in  America  I  would  yisit  The 
Magnolias.  But  for  twenty-five  years  this  promise  had 
been  given  and  not  kept,  so  naturally  she  was  somewhat 
doubtful  of  my  intentions  and  she  said  more  than  once 
to  Scipio,  "I  don't  believe  Miss  Betty's  coming." 
Scipio  never  failed  to  answer  confidently,  "Yes,  she 
will,  Miss  Mary."  "What  makes  you  think  so?" 
Mary  asked.  "Why,  Miss  Mary,"  he  said  (looking  at 
my  photograph),  "she  has  got  one  of  dem  unforgittin' 
faces.  Look  at  dem  eyes  and  de  square  set  of  dat  jaw. 
She  's  gwine  to  come,  and  you  better  be  gittin'  ready 
for  her,  I  tell  yo'  dat  right  now." 

Even  in  all  the  years  when  Mary  ceased  expecting 
me  Scipio  kept  faith,  and  when  I  wrote  to  her  from  New 
Orleans  saying  I  would  be  with  her  in  a  few  days  and 
she  told  him,  he  said,  "Well,  thank  de  Lawd,  we 
suttenly  will  be  gittin'  de  news  from  London  now. 
Dat 's  what  makes  me  say  what  I  do  say.  Take  dese 
people  wid  de  unforgittin'  faces  an'  sooner  or  later 
you  can  always  depen'  on  'em." 

The  day  before  my  arrival  he  noticed  an  engraving 
of  Queen  Victoria  at  the  time  of  her  coronation  and 
said  to  his  mistress,  "Miss  Mary,  I  'm  gwine  to  bring 
dat  picture  of  de  Queen  from  de  hall  upstairs  and  hang 
it  over  de  mantelpiece  in  Mrs.  O'Connor's  room;  it  will 
make  her  feel  more  at  home  and  she  won't  be  so  lone- 


254  My  Beloved  South 

some  for  England. "  Mary  said  Scipio  regarded  me  as 
an  intimate  friend  of  the  Queen,  and  she  had  never 
been  able  to  disillusion  him  of  the  idea. 

He  is  getting  a  little  grey  now;  it  troubles  him,  and 
he  said,  "Miss  Mary,  I  'm  gwine  ter  have  a  black  silk 
cap  to  wear  at  de  table,  'cause  Mrs.  O'Connor  is  sho' 
not  to  like  grey  hair." 

"Why  not?"  said  Mary.  "She  has  grey  hair  of  her 
own." 

But  Scipio  was  firm.    He  said: 

"Nem-mine,  she  's  sho'  not  to  like  grey  hair  on  a 
ole  nigger." 

So  at  dinner  the  night  I  arrived,  the  big  silver  can- 
delabra, brilliantly  burnished,  holding  half-a-dozen 
candles  each,  were  lighted  in  my  honour,  and  Scipio,  in 
spotless  white  linen  vest  and  coat,  black  trousers,  and 
a  neat  black  silk  skull-cap,  waited  at  table  with  old- 
fashioned  courtesy. 

Next  day  Mary  proposed  that  we  should  drive  to  an 
adjoining  plantation  which  had  recently  been  bought 
by  some  people  from  the  West.  Scipio  looked  very 
gloomy  when  told  to  harness  up  the  buggy.  He  said, 
"Miss  Mary,  you  don'  want  ter  know  dat  *ar  person. 
She  's  common." 

Mary  said,  "Why,  I  saw  the  lady  in  church.  She  's 
quite  a  nice  looking  woman. " 

"Dat  don't  make  no  diffunce, "  said  Scipio;  "I  tell 
you,  Miss  Mary,  she  ain't  yo*  kine. " 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  said  Mary. 

"A  woman  what  don't  know  de  faces  of  her  own 
flowers  ain't  wuth  knowin'.  An'  dis  here  one  don't 
know  de  Duchess  of  Luxemburg  from  Marshal  Niel. 
She  don't  know  a  picayune  from  a  Cherokee  rose.  She 
don't  know  love-lies-bleedin'  from  heartsease. " 


An  Old-Time  Plantation  255 

"One,"  remarked  Mary,  "often  needs  the  other." 

Scipio  did  not  notice  the  interruption,  but  went  on, 

"Nor  do  she  know  gillyflower  from  larkspur.  No, 
ma'am,  Miss  Mary,  you  kin  be  lonesome,  but  you  don't 
want  to  know  dem  folks.  When  I  goes  over  dar  for  a 
errand  she  axes  me  to  introduce  her  to  her  own  flowers. 
Now  nothin'  kin  be  commoner  dan  dat.  Why,  part  of 
being  a  lady  is  to  be  kin'  to  flowers.  I  done  seen  yo'  ma 
kiss  one  ob  dem  fresh-faced  Caroline  Testers  more  dan 
once,  I  is  dat. " 

Mary  actually  gave  up  the  idea  of  making  the 
acquaintance  of  the  lady  of  the  flower  garden,  and 
Scipio,  as  usual,  won  the  day.  Instead  of  a  drive,  we 
took  a  long  walk  over  the  plantation  without  hats  or 
gloves,  meeting  but  one  person,  a  troubled,  anxious 
darkey  boy,  driving  a  fine,  refractory  black  and.  white 
cow.  She  had  been  sold  by  Scipio  to  a  plantation  seven 
miles  away,  and  in  a  fit  of  homesickness  had  deserted 
her  calf  and  had  come  back  to  The  Magnolias. 

Mary  said,  "It  serves  me  right;  I  should  never  sell 
any  cattle.  It  breaks  my  heart  to  do  it,  but  I  thought 
we  had  too  many  cows,  and  Scipio  said  we  had  better 
let  just  this  one  go.  Now  we  will  have  to  buy  her  back 
again. " 

We  called  to  Scipio,  who  came  and  gave  a  Gargantuan 
laugh. 

"Why,  Miss  Mary,  dat 's  de  cow  what  you  named 
Psyche;  I  tole  you  no  cow  what  was  named  dat  funny 
name  could  behave  like  udder  cows.  It  's  a  good  job 
de  man  ain't  paid  me  for  her  an'  all  I  got  to  do  is  to  go 
over  an'  fetch  her  calf. " 

The  boy  then  explained  that  the  cow  was  not  the 
only  truant. 

"We  thinks,  Miss  Mary,  dat  de  red  steer  dun  come 


My  Beloved  South 

home  too,  we  can't  find  him  nowhere."  And,  sure 
enough,  not  far  away,  with  a  rope  dangling  from  his 
neck,  was  the  red  steer  grazing  contentedly  and  switch- 
ing his  tail.  "There  now,"  said  Mary,  "I  will  never 
sell  another  animal  while  I  live." 

When  we  finished  our  walk  I  lingered  on  the  balcony, 
for  the  early  spring  flowers  had  just  begun  to  bloom. 
The  honeysuckle  and  coral  honeysuckle  and  little  star 
jessamine  were  making  the  air  sweet  with  perfume,  and 
in  a  plant  at  the  end  of  the  balcony  I  recognised  an  old 
and  long-sought-for  friend.  "Mary,"  I  said,  "isn't 
this  a  night-blooming  jessamine?" 

Mary  answered: 

Not  think  of  thee!     O  friendship's  bloom, 
Is  like  the  flower  that  shuns  the  light 

Which  only  sheds  a  rich  perfume, 

When  veiled  in  absence  from  the  light. 

"Then  it  is  my  long-lost  darling,"  I  said. 

"I  have  spoken,"  replied  Mary. 

"And, "  I  rejoined  sadly,  " I  do  so  long  to  see  it  bloom 
once  again." 

"Then  stay,"  said  Mary,  "until  it  sheds  a  rich 
perfume." 

"  No, "  I  said,  "  I  can't  wait  now,  but  some  day  I  will 
come  back  in  the  month  when  the  jessamine  blooms, 
for  next  to  carnations  I  love  best  the  night-blooming 
jessamine.  When  I  was  a  child  and  went  to  bed  before 
it  opened,  my  mother  always  laid  a  spray  of  it  on  my 
pillow,  and  if  I  awakened  I  instantly  put  my  hand  out 
to  hold  it  to  my  face.  My  Rose,  when  I  am  in  London, 
often  puts  a  flower  beside  my  bed,  and  when  wakeful- 
ness  comes,  it  is  a  fragrant  comforter.  There  are  some 


An  Old-Time  Plantation  257 

lovely  things  I  want  unchanged  in  heaven.  I  hope  the 
flowers  will  all  be  the  same. " 

"Yes,"  said  Mary;  "the  same  flowers,  and  the  same 
birds  and  the  same  butterflies,  and,  oh,  my  dear,  above 
all,  the  same  dearly  loved  and  gone-before  people. " 

That  night  after  I  had  gone  to  bed,  Scipio  said, 
"Miss  Mary,  Miss  Betty"  (he  had  dropped  the  Mrs. 
O'Connor),  "looks  right  young,  don't  she?"  A  pecu- 
liarity of  his  is  that,  like  children,  he  always  wants  the 
people  he  likes  to  be  young.  So  Mary  answered  with 
hesitation,  for  she  knew  it  would  be  a  blow  to  him, 
"She  isn't  very  old,  but  you  know  she  is  a  grand- 
mother." Scipio  winced.  "For  de  Lawd's  sake,  Miss 
Mary,  she  ought  not  to  tell  nobody  dat!  Why  do  she? 
Anyway  she  is  just  as  neat  as  if  she  was  sixteen,  'cause 
I  bin  in  her  room  and  put  some  roses  on  her  dressin' 
table  and  I  jes'  took  a  look  aroun'." 

I  told  Scipio  that  later  I  was  going  to  Vicksburg  to 
pay  a  visit.  He  said  he  hoped  I  would  like  it,  that  he 
did  n't.  "  Dey  tells  me  de  hotels  is  good  in  Vicksburg, 
but  I  think  dese  here  town  darkies  is  mis'rable  creatures ; 
dey  ain't  got  no  awes  of  de  white  folks.  My  Mammy 
brought  me  up  to  have  awes  of  white  folks,  and  I  think 
it 's  jes'  what  a  darkey  ought  to  have.  Dem  Vicksburg 
town  ones,  wid  brown  boots  an'  great  big  teeth  all 
filled  up  wid  gole,  I  ain't  got  no  use  for,  and  I  tells  dem 
dat  myself  when  I  goes  to  Vicksburg.  But  I  got  a 
sister  dat  lives  dere,  she  's  a  mighty  good  washerwoman 
and  a  mighty  good  woman.  Miss  Mary  will  tell  you 
dat.  Her  name  is  Lucinda  Norton,  and  if  you  wants 
her  to  wait  on  you  I  will  get  my  niece  to  write  a  letter 
forme." 

The  night  after  my  arrival  Mary  and  I  went  to  a 
negro  wedding  in  the  New  Town  Landing  Baptist 
17 


258  My  Beloved  South 

Church.  It  was  a  very  long  entertainment,  and  would 
have  been  much  more  magnificent,  if  the  boll-weevil 
had  not  so  seriously  interfered  with  the  income  of  the 
various  participants.  The  church  was  crowded,  with 
people  standing  up  even  outside  the  door.  Two  seats 
in  the  first  row  had  been  reserved  for  Mary  and  her 
guest.  In  a  few  moments  Mendelssohn's  Wedding 
March  was  played  by  ear  on  a  melodeon.  It  was  not 
quite  Mendelssohn's  Wedding  March  but  strongly 
reminiscent  of  it,  with  little  independent  twirls  and 
imaginative  flights  in  between  the  original  harmony. 

Then  Bacchus  Top,  the  bride's  father,  and  his 
daughter,  Blanche  Evelyn  Top,  slowly  advanced  up  the 
aisle,  followed  by  a  bridesmaid  and  groomsman,  the 
bride's  mother,  Mrs.  Bacchus  Top,  and  Charlie  Top, 
the  brother.  Blanche,  in  spite  of  her  name,  was  an 
indelible  ink  spot.  She  looked  like  a  pillar  of  soot 
clothed  in  diaphanous  white  swiss  muslin,  a  long  white 
veil,  a  colossal  wreath  of  orange  blossoms  towering  to  a 
point  in  front  like  a  cathedral,  and  large  white  shoes 
with  immense  rosettes.  She  carried  in  her  hand  a 
Bible  covered  in  silver  paper,  evidently  having  heard 
that  smart  brides  now  carry  prayer-books.  She  pre- 
sented a  wonderful  figure,  and  certainly  "  Solomon  in  all 
his  glory  "  was  never  arrayed  like  that. 

The  bridegroom,  a  small,  bandy-legged,  pathetically 
self-conscious,  black  negro,  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
altar  waiting  for  Blanche.  Large  check  trousers  of 
brown  and  white  adorned  his  barrel-hoop  legs;  brown 
shoes,  a  black  swallow-tail  coat,  a  white  waistcoat,  and 
a  blue  tie  completed  his  costume.  The  black  preacher 
took  the  marriage  license  out  of  his  pocket  and  read  it 
in  a  sonorous  voice  to  the  congregation.  This  was  to 
be  a  marriage  "  wid  a  pair  of  licenses  an'  de  book, "  not 


An  Old-Time  Plantation  259 

a  "takin'  up" — I  suppose  to  show  that  the  marriage 
was  really  a  legal  one.  With  due  gusto  and  decorum 
he  then  proceeded  to  unite  Blanche  Evelyn  Top  and 
Billy  Brooks  in  holy  wedlock. 

After  the  preacher  had  bestowed  his  blessing,  a  tall, 
jet-black  negro  advanced,  and  delivered  a  short  address. 
He  became  very  eloquent  and  some  of  the  guests  wept, 
while  Blanche  Evelyn  sobbed  aloud,  and  Billy  Brooks 
stood  first  on  one  large  brown  foot  and  then  on  the 
other  and  looked  immensely  uncomfortable.  The 
orator  said,  "We  gathers  here  to  witness  this  secret 
cirimony."  (I  turned  to  Mary  and  said,  "Why  secret 
with  about  three  hundred  people  in  the  church?  "  Mary 
said,  "My  dear,  you  have  been  too  long  in  England; 
he  means  sacred.")  "We  fetches  up  a  daughter,"  he 
continued,  "and  we  watches  ober  her  day  an'  night. 
She  's  a  good  gal  of  fine  elements,  an'  den  when  she  's 
young,  an'  fresh  an'  tender,  an*  useful,  we  is  obleeged 
to  give  her  up.  A  stranger  comes  an'  she  des  flies  into 
dem  arms  of  his  'n  befo'  you  kin  say  'Jack  Roberson." 
(Mary  leaned  over  to  me  and  said,  "Billy  Brooks  was 
born  in  the  next  cabin  and  has  played  with  Blanche 
Evelyn  since  they  were  six  months  old!")  Loud  sobs 
came  from  Blanche  Evelyn.  The  father,  Bacchus  Top, 
ejaculated,  "Now  ain't  dat  de  troof. "  And  the 
congregation  said,  "You  spoke  a  parable." 

The  speaker  continued:  "When  William  S.  Brooks 
fust  axed  Bacchus  Top  fo'  de  hand  ob  Blanche  Evelyn, 
he  declined  de  idea,  but  love  gits  ober  de  roughest 
places,  he  don't  keer  fur  jolts,  not  inde  beginnin',  any- 
way. In  de  een  Bacchus  Top  saw  dat  William  Brooks 
had  consumed  his  time  in  a  way  dat  was  favourable  to 
savin'  a  right  smart  sum  ob  money,  so  he  done  gib  his 
consent  to  de  marriage,  an'  dat 's  how  it  come  to  take 


260  My  Beloved  South 

place. "  (A  few  sniffles  from  the  congregation,  mothers 
and  fathers,  I  presume,  of  young  and  tender  daughters.) 
"Yes,  frien's  an*  neighbours,  an'  young  an'  ole,  an'  rich 
an'  pore-  after  dis  here  secret  cirimony,  de  most  secret 
condition  in  de  whole  ob  dis  here  roun'  worl',  arises  for  a 
man  and  a  woman,  dey  is  jined  togedder  in  holy  wedlock 
as  long  as  dey  live,  unless  dey  git  a  divo'ce,  and  dis  is 
somethin'  which  ain't  only  occurred  onct  on  Miss 
Mary's  plantation,  and  not  onct  since  de  boll-weevil  is 
come,  and  even  dough  de  boll-weevil,  please  God,  goes 
back  to  whar'  he  comes  from,  I  hope  it  will  never  happen 
agin.  Well,  all  ob  us  knows  dis  here  Billy  Brooks. 
He  is  a  good  man,  I  tell  you,  an'  a  splendid  cotton 
picker.  We  all  knows  Miss  Blanche  Evelyn  as  one  ob 
dese  high  fliers,  but  neber  min',  she  's  young,  an'  dar  's 
nothin'  like  matrimony  to  make  a  woman  fly  low  instid 
ob  high.  An',  anyhow,  she  's  bin  a  good  chile  to  her  ma 
and  her  pa,  and  she  '11  be  a  good  wife  to  Billy  Brooks. 
He  ain't  like  so  many  husbands,  a  stranger  from  a' 
adjoinin'  plantation;  but  a  man  must  always  be  a 
stranger  to  his  wife  till  he  's  married  to  her;  den  he  shows 
hissef  as  hissef,  and  den  she  shows  hersef  as  hersef, 
an'  den  sometimes  de  whole  roun'  worl'  is  full  ob  trouble. 
So  dough  Blanche  Evelyn  and  Billy  Brooks  has  knowed 
each  other  all  dey  lives,  dey  's  strangers  till  Billy  Brooks 
has  showed  hissef  what  he  is  an'  what  he  's  goin'  to  be, 
and  Blanche  Evelyn  has  showed  hersef  what  she  is  an' 
what  she  's  goin'  to  be.  You  all  dun  heerd  ob  de  man 
what  got  married  an'  when  he  tuk  his  wife  home,  he  got 
out  a  pair  ob  breeches  an'  laid  dem  on  de  baid.  Den 
he  say  to  his  wife,  '  Look  at  dem,  an*  tell  me  who  's 
gwine  to  wear  'em ;  ef  it 's  you,  I  wants  to  know  it  right 
now,  'cause  it  will  save  a  mighty  heap  ob  trouble.  Ef 
it  's  me,  I  '11  keep  'em  on  dis  time  forward. '  Now  in  dis 


An  Old-Time  Plantation  261 

weddin'  maybe  needer  Billy  Brooks  nor  Blanche  Evelyn 
knows  who  's  agwine  to  wear  dis  garment  but  I  does, 
dough  I  ain't  agwine  to  tell  nobody;  I  ain't  gwine  to  say 
a  word.  But  nebber  min'  who  's  gwine  to  wear  dem 
breeches,  I  sho'  does  want  dis  here  man  an'  dis  here 
woman  in  sperrit  an'  life,  as  long  as  dey  libs  together, 
dat  dey  love  each  oder,  dat  dey  '11  make  a  home  de 
one  for  de  oder,  an'  pick  cotton  togedder  and  have 
children  togedder,  and  live  to  be  ole  people.  'Cause 
when  married  folks  lives  togedder  dese  many  years  an' 
gits  de  habits  ob  each  oder,  in  de  een  dey  '11  be  one 
person.  Dis  is  de  good  luck  an'  de  good  fortune  dat  I 
wishes  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  S.  Brooks. " 

He  then  unfastened  a  large  gold  cross  from  the  neck 
of  Blanche  and  held  it  in  his  hand.  A  hymn  was  sung, 
the  bride  and  groom  sat  down,  and  two  men  advanced 
with  two  very  large  washing  baskets,  one  of  them  full 
and  the  other  empty.  Mr.  P.  C.  Hall,  he  of  the  "se- 
cret" discourse,  stepped  down  between  the  two  baskets 
and  held  up  in  front  of  the  congregation  the  gold  cross, 
with  a  suspiciously  large  diamond  in  the  centre.  "  Dis 
here,  ladies  an'  gentlemen,  is  from  Miss  Mary  Davis,  de 
owner  of  dis  plantation,  an'  mo*  den  dat,  a  sho'  nuff 
lady,  and  the  cross  am  gole  an'  de  diamond  do  shine." 
The  cross  was  then  handed  back  to  Blanche  Evelyn,  who 
adjusted  it  about  her  neck.  He  next  held  up  a  small 
glass  lamp  and  read  on  the  card,  "Mrs.  Joseph  Lang- 
ham  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  Brooks,  an'  de  light  shall 
shine,  dat 's  what  we  all  hopes  for  'em,  an'  always  nuff 
oil  for  it  to  shine  wid. " 

He  then  exhibited  a  pair  of  heavy,  unbleached  cotton 
sheets  from  Mrs.  Delilah  Young.  "  Dese  here  sheets  is 
strong  and  tough,  dear  sisters  and  brederin';  I  only 
hopes  dat  de  love  ob  de  bride  an'  groom  is  goin'  to  last 


262  My  Beloved  South 

as  long  as  what  dese  sheets  is.  It  '11  take  a  many  a 
year  to  wear  'em  out.  Maybe  some  day,  an'  I  hope 
it  '11  be  a  long  day  fo'  de  sheet  an'  de  man,  dey  '11  be  de 
windin'  sheet  ob  Billy  Brooks. "  Billy  Brooks  shivered. 
The  sheets  were  then  solemnly  placed  back  in  the  basket. 
"An'  here,"  said  Mr.  Hall,  "is  de  present  ob  de  bride's 
ma,  Mrs.  Bacchus  Top" — a  frying-pan,  a  teakettle, 
and  a  large  sieve  were  held  up.  "  Dese  things  is  fur  de 
kitchen  an'  to  encourage  de  bride  to  stay  in  it,  fur  de 
most  ob  de  time;  dat  's  where  de  wife  belongs,  wid  her 
fryin'-pans  an'  her  teakittles  an'  her  sieves,  an'  when 
she  ain't  dar,  wid  her  sewin'  an'  her  mendin',  she  ought 
to  be  waitin'  wid  a  lovin'  smile  for  her  husband  to  come 
home.  But  on  his  side  he  must  n't  keep  her  waitin'  too 
long ;  no,  sir,  when  de  fry  is  ready,  dar  's  whar  he  ought 
to  be." 

The  cooking  utensils  clattered  into  the  waiting  basket 
and  he  held  up  a  long  pink  envelope  sealed  with  two 
pink  flying  cupids.  "Dis  am  de  cheque  from  de 
bride's  pa  to  her,  an'  it  don't  make  no  difference  what  de 
amount  is,  de  cheque  am  here.  De  rest  ob  de  people  on 
dis  plantation  ain't  got  no  use  for  a  bank,  an'  a  bank 
ain't  got  no  use  for  dem,  but  Mr.  Top  made  hissef  into 
what  might  be  called  a  citizen  wid  needs  for  a  bank, 
an'  you  can't  get  no  furder  dan  dis.  He  is  got  up  wid, 
an'  befo',  de  bird  an'  de  worm,  he  is  toiled,  he  is  a 
shinin'  mark  for  every  big  or  little  coloured  man  on  de 
place  to  follow."  Loud  applause  with,  "He  is  dat, 
amen!"  from  the  men,  and  "Hallelujah!"  from  the 
women.  The  envelope  was  then  carefully  handed  to 
Blanche  Evelyn.  Then  two  very  meagre  towels  were 
held  up,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Zack  Foster's  compliments. 
Mr.  Hall  smiled  genially :  "  Now  did  anybody  eber  see  de 
beat  ob  dat?  Brer  Zack  Foster  suttenly  is  a  clean  man, 


An  Old-Time  Plantation  263 

an'  he  wants  Billy  Brooks  to  wash  his  hands  as  often  as 
he  do." 

Next  came  from  Mr.  Ned  Bullen  a  lace  collar  with  a 
flattering  remark  about  the  beautiful  neck  of  the  bride. 
This  was  followed  by  a  long  list  of  heterogeneous  ob- 
jects, none  of  them  in  the  least  useful;  therefore  they 
gave  particular  pleasure  to  the  giver  and  the  receiver 
and  all  of  them  were  held  up  to  the  audience  and  com- 
mented upon  as  they  were  transferred  from  one  basket 
to  another. 

The  baskets  were  now  removed,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
William  S.  Brooks  turned  about  to  receive  the  con- 
gratulations of  the  guests.  An  enormous  pink  cake,  pro- 
fusely covered  with  white  roses,  and  a  tray  bearing  wine 
glasses  were  passed  round  with  a  distinctly  heady  brand 
of  wine.  I  only  sipped  a  little,  as  it  seemed  composed 
entirely  of  aromatic  alcohol.  We  then  helped  our- 
selves to  a  small  portion  of  cake,  congratulated  the 
bride  and  groom,  and  drove  home  in  the  beautiful 
spring  moonlight.  I  was  vastly  and  tenderly  amused 
by  the  evening's  festivities,  which  seemed  to  have  trans- 
ported me  back  again  to  the  scenes  of  my  childhood. 

My  week  with  Mary  was  a  visit  all  too  short,  for  the 
house  was  full  of  memories  of  the  old  South,  old  letters, 
old  engravings,  old  books,  which  I  had  no  time  to  see 
satisfactorily.  It  is  curious  how  alike  the  tastes  of 
Southern  people  were.  Every  old  library  in  the  South, 
no  matter  how  meagre,  contains  Chambers'  Journal, 
the  copies  all  bound  in  glossy  yellow  covers  with  a 
little  border  of  green  leaves  round  the  edge  and  a 
branch  of  green  in  the  centre;  Byron,  Moore,  Keats, 
Shelley,  Tennyson,  Thackeray,  a  complete  set  of  Scott 
and  Dickens,  and  several  Books  of  Beauty.  I  came 
across  an  adored  one  of  my  childhood — Women  oj 


264  My  Beloved  South 

Beauty  and  Heroism  from  Semiramis  to  Eugenie,  with 
charming  engravings  of  Penelope,  Beatrice,  Jeanne 
d'Arc,  Isabella,  Diane  de  Poitiers,  Anne  Boleyn,  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots,  Pocahontas,  Nell  Gwynne,  Lady  Mary 
Wortley  Montagu,  Marie  Antoinette,  Queen  Victoria 
(rose  in  hair),  Charlotte  Bronte,  and  the  "Maid  of 
Saragoza." 

Her  lover  sinks — she  sheds  no  ill-timed  tear; 
Her  chief  is  slain — she  fills  his  fatal  post; 

Her  fellows  flee — she  checks  their  base  career; 
The  foe  retires — she  heads  the  rallying  host: 
Who  can  appease  like  her  a  lover's  ghost? 

A  good  verse,  with  its  martial  ring,  for  the  Suffragists. 

All  Southern  races  are  instinctive  lovers  of  poetry 
and  music.  Lisa  Lehman's  "Persian  Garden"  from  the 
immortal  Omar  Khayyam  is  known  and  sung  through- 
out the  South;  and  when  I  tell  them  she  is  a  grand- 
daughter of  Robert  Chambers  they  feel  that  she  is 
a  well-known  friend. 

Among  a  bundle  of  faded  letters  written  by  Mary's 
mother  to  her  father  soon  after  they  were  married  was 
one  dated  on  a  Mississippi  steamboat  in  1857.  She 
said: 

' '  The  journey  has  been  perfectly  delightful.  The  steamer 
is  large  and  luxurious,  beautifully  furnished,  and  the  state- 
rooms are  very  comfortable.  Several  of  our  mutual  friends 
from  the  Delta  have  been  at  the  landing  stages  to  say  a  word 
of  welcome  and  give  me  bunches  of  roses.  The  people  on 
board  are  very  interesting.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  D. 
Prentiss  have  a  stateroom  next  mine.  He  is  the  most  bril- 
liant talker  I  ever  met,  so  witty,  eloquent,  and  delightful. 
Mrs.  Prentiss  runs  her  husband  close  in  wit  and  they  are 
an  excellent  foil  for  each  other  and  an  example  to  all  hus- 


An  Old-Time  Plantation  265 

bands  and  wives  inasmuch  as  they  never  spoil  each  other's 
stories.  You  do  not  hear  him  say,  '  On  Tuesday  last  I  was 
walking  down  Fourth  Street  in  Louisville,  Kentucky, '  and 
Mrs.  Prentiss  interrupt  him  with,  'No,  my  dear,  it  was 
Saturday  afternoon.'  As  if  it  matters  to  the  hearer  when  a 
story  is  told  whether  the  incident  occurred  on  Saturday 
afternoon,  Sunday,  Monday  or  Tuesday.  After  seeing  the 
Prentisses  play  into  each  other's  hands  with  such  distinction 
and  humour,  never  again  will  I  correct  you,  my  dear,  even 
if  I  know  your  story  to  be  entirely  of  the  imagination,  and 
if  nothing  in  it  happened  on  any  day  of  the  week. 

"There  is  a  beautiful  play  actress  on  board,  and  her 
husband  is  a  handsome  man  with  large  dark  eyes  and  a 
Roman  nose.  They  say  his  name  is  Booth  and  he  comes 
from  England.  They  have  lost  their  only  son,  a  year  old 
babe,  and  they  actually  seem  to  be  deeply  grieved.  I  would 
like,  in  a  Christian  spirit,  to  speak  to  her,  but  the  ladies 
on  board  would  not  understand  my  action,  and  it  takes 
courage,  for  you  know  none  of  my  friends  and  acquaintances 
have  ever  in  their  lives  spoken  to  a  play  actress." 

Actors  in  those  days  were  regarded  as  such  pariahs, 
so  different  and  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  that 
evidently  this  lady  was  greatly  surprised  at  their 
suffering  grief  like  ordinary  mortals.  Fifty-four  years, 
have,  however,  reversed  the  position  of  the  gentle 
chatelaine  of  the  plantation  and  the  play  actress  of 
to-day.  Now,  this  lady's  granddaughter  would  prob- 
ably be  waiting  at  the  wings  to  present  a  bunch  of 
violets  and  an  admiring  letter  to  a  star,  who,  if  capri- 
cious, would  have  no  hesitation  in  refusing  to  see  her, 
for  play  actresses  are  no  longer  pariahs  and  outcasts, 
but  are  veritable  queens  of  the  world. 

On  the  day  of  my  departure,  when  I  looked  for  the 
last  time  at  the  pretty,  sleepy  old  house,  with  its  long 
roomy  verandah  in  its  flowery  setting  of  early  spring 


266  My  Beloved  South 

blossoms,  my  heart  was  full  of  regret  and,  absent- 
mindedly,  I  brushed  against  the  freshly  painted  fence. 
But  Scipio  was  quite  equal  to  the  occasion.  He  said, 
"Des  a  minute,  Miss  Betty,  while  I  des  assassinate  a 
flannel  cloth  in  turpentine,  and  I  '11  take  dat  paint  off 
your  dress  in  a  jiffy."  And  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
the  dress  was  cleaned  and  we  started  on  our  journey. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  MISSISSIPPI   RIVER 

The  very  thought  of  this  is  sweet; 
What  though  the  memory  be  fleet, 
The  sound,  the  odour,  but  a  snatch? 
It  is  the  clicking  of  the  latch. 

REESE. 

NEW  TOWN  LANDING  is  only  a  mile  from  The 
Magnolias,  and  Mary  offered  to  go  with  me  to 
Natchez,  which  would  give  us  a  day  and  a  night  on  the 
river.  The  landings  on  the  Mississippi  are  not  land- 
ings in  the  builders'  or  architects'  sense  of  the  word,  for, 
if  nature  and  the  river  do  not  make  it,  there  is  no  landing 
at  all,  and  at  New  Town  the  bank  of  the  river  is  so  steep 
that  it  makes  the  bridge  almost  perpendicular.  With 
the  deep  brown  water  flowing  beneath  and  not  even  a 
rope  to  offer  a  sense  of  protection,  my  courage  failed 
me  for  a  moment;  but  the  captain  and  chief  mate  ran 
up  the  plank,  each  gave  me  his  arm,  and  with  my  eyes 
fixed  on  the  blue  sky,  I  found  myself  quickly  deposited 
on  deck.  Mary,  even  more  tremulous  than  I,  followed 
me  with  the  same  assistance. 

There  are  now  comparatively  few  passengers  travel- 
ling on  these  boats.  The  bends  of  the  river,  Palmyra 
Lake,  and  the  many  landings  where  oil,  bacon,  meal, 
flour,  corn,  ploughs,  rakes,  spades,  and  cotton  are 
unloaded,  extend  a  journey  of  two  hours  by  rail  into  one 

267 


268  My  Beloved  South 

of  a  day  and  a  night  by  water.  When  I  was  a  little 
girl  and  my  father  brought  me  North  to  place  me  in  a 
board  ng  school,  it  was  not  so  long  after  the  war  but 
that  some  of  the  splendid  steamers  still  plied  their  way 
up  and  down  the  Mississippi.  We  were  a  week  on 
board  and,  child  as  I  was,  that  mighty,  uncontrolled 
river  even  then  held  a  wondrous  charm  for  me,  and  I 
recollect  the  week  of  dancing  and  singing  and  laughter 
and  light  and  the  gay  people  who  only  went  to  bed  at 
rosy  dawn. 

It  was  the  last  week  in  September,  and  the  autumn 
sunshine  was  of  a  most  luminous  gold.  At  night  the 
river  was  a  veritable  diamond-studded  lake,  while 
flaming  torches  lighted  the  splendid  dark  forests 
standing  in  their  myriad  hosts  on  the  banks,  and  soft 
winds  stole  northward  to  us  from  the  Gulf  of  Mexico, 
bringing  the  sweetest  odours  of  honeysuckle  and  orange- 
groves,  and  the  tonic  breath  of  the  pines.  We  could 
almost  hear  the  rustle  of  the  lime  trees  on  the  banks. 
The  "roustabouts, "  or  porters,  were  up  all  night,  as  we 
stopped  at  the  various  landings,  where  we  deposited 
barrels  of  molasses  and  flour,  cornmeal,  sugar,  coffee, 
whisky  and  brandy,  kegs  of  salt  fish  and  pickles,  and, 
for  the  richer  planters,  all  sorts  and  kinds  of  delicious 
condiments.  The  rousters,  like  the  jinriksha  men, 
descend  from  one  generation  to  another.  Tall,  black, 
muscular,  healthy,  hearty,  abnormally  strong  specimens 
of  manhood,  they  can  pick  up  a  barrel  weighing  one 
hundred  and  ninety-six  pounds  and  sling  it  on  their 
shoulders  as  easily  as  an  ordinary  man  would  handle  a 
baseball. 

As  soon  as  the  sun  went  down,  the  banjo  began  to 
give  out  its  song  as  the  night  jessamine  gives  out  its 
perfume.  One  tall,  dandified  negro  silenced  the  voices 


The  Mississippi  River  269 

on  the  deck  above,  as  he  picked  up  his  banjo  and 
sang: 

Late  in  de  fall  de  ribber  mos'  dry, 
Water  lie  low  and  de  banks  lie  high, 
Bullfrog  roll  up  his  pants  jes'  so, 
An'  he  wade  acrost  from  sho'  to  sho'. 
Oh,  you  gallernipper, 
Down  on  de  Mississipper, 
Gallernipper, 
Mississipper, 

O-hi-0! 

Water  so  shaller  dat  de  eel  can't  swim 
'Dout  kickin'  up  de  dus'  in  de  middle  o*  de  stream; 
Sun  shine  hot,  an'  de  catfish  say, 
'We  'se  gettin'  right  freckle-faced  down  our  way!' 
Oh,  you  gallernipper.  .  .  . 

I  remember  still  every  detail  of  our  journey  and  my 
first  impressions  of  that  wonderful  stream  of  mystery 
and  charm,  the  slow-winding  Mississippi — that  river 
unique  in  all  the  world,  which  can  boast  of  a  duel 
fought  on  account  of  a  sneering  remark  made  about  its 
greatness. 

The  authentic  story  says  that  about  forty  years  ago 
the  Chevalier  Tomasi,  a  very  learned  man,  an  academi- 
cian, who  was  living  in  New  Orleans,  published  a 
statement  about  this  river.  He  said  that  technically  he 
could  stop  the  river,  make  it  deeper,  or  restrict  it  within 
scientific  boundaries.  A  fiery  Creole  remarked  to 
Tomasi  that  he  was  too  sanguine  about  the  management 
of  the  Mississippi,  as  it  was  a  very  headstrong  stream, 
as  changeable,  as  uncertain,  and  as  fascinating  as  a 
woman.  Apparently,  the  Creator  of  the  universe  had 
rules  for  everything  in  the  world  except  that  unique 


270  My  Beloved  South 

body  ol  water,  which  was  a  law  unto  itself.  To  this 
remark  Tomasi  gave  a  contemptuous  shrug  of  his 
shoulders,  and  said  with  a  sneer,  "Oh,  you  Americans 
know  nothing  of  the  geographical  world ;  there  are  rivers 
in  Europe  so  much  larger  than  the  Mississippi  that  they 
make  it  by  contrast  a  mere  creek."  The  Creole  replied, 
white  with  rage,  "Sir,  I  will  never,  as  a  Louisianian, 
permit  the  great  Mississippi  to  be  insulted  in  my 
presence."  And  he  accompanied  the  remark  with  the 
flirt  of  a  glove  in  the  Chevalier's  face. 

A  challenge  was  the  consequence.  Seconds  were 
chosen,  and  the  party  repaired  to  the  famous  duelling 
ground  of  the  day,  where  the  Creole  wounded  Professor 
Tomasi,  mortally,  it  was  thought.  Soon  afterwards, 
however,  the  Chevalier  appeared  in  the  street  with  a 
bandage  about  his  jaw.  He  had  lost  a  good  deal  of 
blood,  and  was  very  pale.  When  asked  about  the  duel, 
he  stripped  off  the  bandage  and  it  was  seen  that  the 
sword  of  the  defender  of  the  Mississippi  had  passed 
across  his  mouth  from  one  cheek  to  the  other.  The 
Chevalier  said,  "I  live,  as  you  see,  scarred  for  life,  and 
my  antagonist  lives.  That  is  the  fault  of  your  miserable 
American  steel.  My  sword,  when  I  gave  him  a  deadly 
thrust,  bent  as  if  it  were  made  of  lead. "  But  there  was 
no  one  to  defend  American  steel,  and  the  Chevalier  did 
not  fight  a  second  duel. 

And,  although  my  time  was  limited,  the  allurement  of 
the  mighty  river  called  to  me  like  the  voice  of  a  siren. 
There  are  many  fine  plantations  to  be  seen.  The 
banks  can  boast  of  primeval  forests  rich  in  game  of 
every  description.  One  huntsman  on  board  said  he  and 
a  party  of  friends,  ten  or  twelve  men,  had  killed  twenty- 
nine  black  bears  in  one  day.  There  are  numbers  of 
trappers  living  in  the  woods  who  make  a  good  income 


The  Mississippi  River  271 

out  of  skunk  and  otter,  beaver  and  coon,  and  the  much- 
desired  grey  squirrel. 

Nevertheless,  the  life  along  the  river  is  as  intimate 
as  that  of  the  Thames.  Every  planter  knows  the 
estate  of  every  other  planter,  and  the  familiar  history 
for  generations  of  each  family.  "Davis  Bend"  is 
named  for  the  master  of  Brierfield,  the  plantation  of 
Jeff  Davis;  "Ashfield"  belongs  to  Lady  Ritchie,  who 
married  Sir  James  Ritchie;  and  "  Limerick"  is  so-called 
in  honour  of  an  Irish  family. 

Although  it  was  dusk  a  tall  beacon  light  announced 
the  landing  of  "Hard  Times,"  a  misnomer  it  seems,  as 
the  owner  was  a  millionaire,  and  travelled  up  and  down 
the  river  to  superintend  nine  plantations.  He  lived 
during  the  winter  at  "Winter  Quarters." 

"Yes,"  said  Mary  to  the  Captain,  "there  shines  the 
beacon  at  'Hard  Times'  and  all  the  family  are  dead. 
I  remember  when  I  was  going  there  to  visit  Mrs.  Gilles- 
pie  she  wrote  to  tell  me  that  her  husband  would  meet 
me  at  the  landing.  She  had  gathered  seventy  varieties 
of  roses  that  day,  to  glorify  the  house  for  my  coming. " 

"  She  loved  roses,  then, "  I  said. 

"Oh,"  said  Mary,  "she  was  the  sweetest,  daintiest 
creature;  she  loved  everything  that  was  beautiful. " 

"They  were  about  the  richest  people  on  the  river," 
remarked  the  Captain. 

"And  yet,"  said  Mary,  "the  early  years  of  their 
married  life  were  dreadfully  overshadowed.  Mrs. 
Gillespie  lost  her  first  three  children.  When  they  died 
Mr.  Gillespie  would  allow  no  hand  to  touch  them  but  his 
own ;  he  even  carried  the  little  coffins  in  his  arms  to  the 
grave.  Then  came  the  last  son,  Jack,  and  he  lived  to 
grow  up  and  was  very  handsome  and  clever  and  charm- 
ing, but  he,  too,  died  young. " 


272  My  Beloved  South 

"  Luckily, "  said  the  Captain,  "his  father  and  mother 
had  both  gone  before  him.  Mrs.  Gillespie  died  from  a 
cold  she  contracted  while  making  peach  preserves  on 
a  charcoal  fire.  It  was  in  the  autumn  and  she  wore  a 
white  muslin  gown  and  got  chilled,  and  never  recovered 
from  an  attack  of  pneumonia. " 

"Yes,"  said  Mary,  "she  was  one  of  those  notable 
housewives,  who  made  their  own  preserves,  and  pre- 
served peaches  in  brandy  and  cordials,  and  cherry  and 
peach  and  apricot  brandies.  How  delicious  they  were, 
and  what  pride  the  old-fashioned  Southern  house- 
keeper took  in  her  still-room!" 

My  mind  wandered  back  to  the  good  old  days  when 
the  splendid  opulent  plantations  were  intact,  and  not 
divided  up  into  small  holdings  and  leased  as  they  are 
now  to  the  negroes.  Nor  was  the  boll-weevil  known 
then,  that  tragic  insect,  which  has  brought  almost  as 
much  distress  upon  the  South  as  the  Civil  War,  but 
from  which  it  is  already  nobly  recovering. 

But  I  was  recalled  to  the  present  by  a  Mississippi  man 
who  had  been  regarding  me  closely  and  steadily  for  at 
least  five  minutes.  He  was,  I  learned  afterwards,  only 
two  years  and  six  months  old,  and,  like  Napoleon,  was 
small  of  stature,  but  he  made  the  most  of  his  inches  by 
an  erect  and  proud  carriage.  His  face  was  perfectly 
serious,  not  in  the  least  sullen,  but  thoughtful.  He  wore 
his  hat,  however,  like  a  thorough  rake.  It  was  the 
smallest  Panama  I  have  ever  seen;  it  turned  up  all 
round  except  for  a  pert  peak  in  front,  and  he  carried  it 
jauntily  dangling  on  one  ear.  He  was  quite  alone  on 
deck,  no  nurse  or  mother  interfered  with  his  complete 
freedom.  After  his  close  scrutiny  of  me,  although  he 
did  n't  smile  I  thought  I  detected  an  urbane  expression 
on  his  little  square  face,  so  I  said,  "How  do  you  do?" 


The  Mississippi  River  273 

and  put  out  my  hand.  He  was  a  very  long  time  taking 
it,  but  finally  he  solemnly  shook  hands  with  me  and  then 
retreated.  In  ten  minutes  he  was  back  again  to  make 
a  second  examination,  which  seemed  more  satisfactory 
than  the  first.  I  said  to  him,  "You  are  slow  in  mak- 
ing up  your  mind,  but  I  have  an  idea  you  would  make 
a  fast  friend."  He  said,  "Oh,  Ouch!"  and  again  he 
promenaded  the  deck,  going  to  the  extreme  end  of  the 
steamer.  After  a  short  meditation  there,  he  returned 
and  standing  as  straight  as  a  little  soldier  before  me,  he 
said,  "  Up ! "  I  gathered  him  in  my  arms,  sat  him  on  my 
knee,  smoothed  his  tow  head,  placed  his  hat  at  a  more 
serious  angle,  and  thus  our  acquaintance  began.  "I 
thought,"  I  said,  "that  rakish  hat  meant  something." 
He  grinned,  showing  at  the  time  a  good  set  of  strong 
little  teeth,  and  pointing  to  a  negro  carrying  a  barrel 
said,  "Nigger  work."  Then  I  gave  him  my  watch, 
which  has  a  good  loud  introductory  tick,  and  it  just 
fitted  his  ear.  For  quite  ten  minutes  that  amused  him, 
and  the  knife  and  a  red  lucky  bean  in  my  bunch  of 
charms  found  great  favour  in  his  eyes.  At  the  end  of 
this  examination  a  new  treasure  was  discovered,  my 
little  brown  leather  bag,  bought  for  me  by  my  dear  far- 
away English  Rose  in  Wiesbaden.  It  opened  and  shut 
with  a  loud  snap.  I  opened  it,  he  shut  it,  and  this  game 
we  played  for  some  interesting  moments.  Finally,  he 
dived  into  its  contents  and  found  a  small  pair  of  scis- 
sors in  a  red  leather  case.  Oh  joy !  he  could  hold  them 
in  his  small  fingers,  they  just  fitted  and  yet  were  safely 
closed.  He  was  now  conversational,  trusting,  and 
happy. 

The  Captain  said,  "It  looks  like  war  with  Mexico." 
"  Mex, "  said  the  Mississippi  man  to  me. 
"Anyhow,"    said    the   Captain,    "Uncle   Sam    will 

18 


274  My  Beloved  South 

manage  these  Dagos.  He  made  things  all  right  with 
Cuba." 

"Cuba!  Ba!"  said  the  Mississippi  man,  greatly 
astonished. 

Then  his  father  appeared  and  said,  "See  here,  young 
man,  I  Ve  been  a-lookin'  for  you.  I  thought  you  'd 
went  overboard." 

"No,  "said  the  child. 

"I'm  mighty  glad  you  ain't,"  said  the  father. 
"Maw  wants  to  wash  your  face.  Come  now,  the 
lady'  s  tired,  come  along,  Albert. " 

Albert  stiffened.     "  No,  I  won't  go. " 

His  father  said,  "  I  ain't  never  seen  sich  a  child.  We 
ain't  got  no  neighbours.  Albert 's  been  brought  up  on 
a  plantation,  he  ain't  never  seen  no  people  till  to-day, 
and  he  ain't  but  two  years  and  six  months  old,  but  he 
ain't  afraid  of  nothin'  on  earth,  neither  bulls,  nor  cows, 
nor  horses,  nor  people.  He  ain't  never  seen  a  boat  till 
to-day  but  he  do  just  like  he  owned  the  boat,  an'  now 
he  's  doin'  just  like  he  owned  you.  He  's  slow  to  make 
up  his  mind,  but  he  dun  made  it  up  'bout  you,  an'  he 
likes  you  just  the  same  as  he  does  his  maw.  Now,  son, 
stop  lissenin'  to  the  watch  an'  shut  up  the  bag,  an'  come 
an'  see  brother  Robert. " 

" No, "  said  Albert  doggedly,  "no  Wobbert. " 

"Listen  to  him,"  said  his  father,  "he  just  loves 
Robert.  Here,"  giving  him  a  five-cent  piece,  "take 
this  nickel  to  Robert. "  Albert  took  the  nickel  and  with 
an  enchanting  smile  presented  it  to  me.  "  May  I  keep 
it?"  I  said  to  the  father,  "in  remembrance  of  a  very 
brave  little  gentleman?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  the  father,  "an'  shore  he  is. 
I  've  yet  got  to  see  Albert  afraid  of  any  livin'  thing. 
He  's  little,  but  he  's  game  all  through,  an'  he  's  got  a 


The  Mississippi  River  275 

heap  of  sense  an',  more,  that  chile  's  got  judgment. 
Come  on,  son,  mother  '11  be  searchin'  for  us  in  a  minute." 

And  Albert  wept  at  our  parting,  not  angrily  like  the 
ordinary  child,  but  a  few,  self -repressed,  strong,  manly 
tears. 

Later  he  came  back  of  his  own  accord  to  kiss  me 
good-bye.  He  was  n't  a  cuddling,  appealing  child. 
He  will  not  win  friends  by  his  charm,  but  by  his  straight- 
forward honesty,  his  wonderful  courage,  and  supreme 
confidence.  He  is  one  of  Mississippi's  smallest  sons, 
and  he  comes  of  the  people,  but  he  already  does  credit 
to  the  State.  The  last  I  saw  of  him  he  was  trotting 
behind  his  mother,  a  tuft  of  his  tow  hair  sticking  out 
beyond  the  peak  of  the  Panama  hat,  which  had  resumed 
its  saucy  angle.  His  father,  carrying  the  baby,  offered 
him  his  hand,  but  he  declined  it  and  walked  alone. 
Perhaps  some  day  Albert  will  be  a  great  soldier,  or  a 
great  statesman,  or  even  President  of  the  United  States. 

In  the  evening  Mary  and  I  sat  late  on  deck.  It  was 
the  i  yth  of  March,  and  the  Captain,  who  was  of  Irish 
descent,  gave  me  a  small  brooch  containing  a  figure  of 
St.  Patrick  in  porcelain  surrounded  by  a  little  silken 
wreath  of  shamrock,  and  the  flag  of  Erin  was  hung  in 
the  cabin.  I  think  there  was  more  real  sentiment  for 
St.  Patrick  along  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi  than  in  the 
East.  A  young  journalist  on  The  Herald  describing  to 
me  a  St.  Patrick's  day  parade  in  New  York  said,  "  It  is 
wonderfully  democratic  and  is  carried  out  in  the  widest 
catholic  spirit.  First,  there  will  be  one  Irishman  and 
two  Jews,  then  two  Irish  and  four  Greeks,  then  four 
Irishmen  and  two  Turks  and  two  Armenians,  then  six 
Irishmen  and  ten  Italians  and  a  scattering  of  Germans; 
all  of  them  wearing  large  bunches  of  shamrock,  and 
nobody  knowing  why  the  Dickens  they  have  got  it  on; 


276  My  Beloved  South 

but  what  they  do  know  is  there  will  be  "lashins"  of 
drink  towards  nightfall,  one  or  two  good,  stirring 
fights,  and  any  number  of  broken  heads.  So  they  all 
enjoy  themselves,  though  it  is  Babel,  for  they  cannot 
speak  each  other's  tongue." 

Although  the  boats  are  no  longer  splendid  on  the 
Mississippi,  the  charm  of  the  great  river  is  there.  The 
splendid  flaming  sunsets  of  ruddy  gold  and  deepest  rose 
and  purest  violet  blaze  in  the  west  and  turn  the  water 
into  lakes  of  living  fire,  and  the  rousters  still  play  and 
sing  on  the  lower  deck  after  nightfall  begins.  A  good 
baritone  lifted  up  his  voice  tunefully  in: 

Adam  neber  had  no  mammy 

Fur  to  take  him  on  her  knee 

And  tell  him  what  was  right,  and  show  him 

Things  he  's  ought  to  see. 

I  know,  down  in  my  heart, 

He  'd  a'  let  dat  apple  be ; 

But  Adam  neber  had  no  dear  old  mammy, 

Adam  neber  had  no  childhood, 

Playin'  round  de  cabin  do', 

He  neber  had  no  pickininny  life, 

He  started  in  a  great  big  grown-up  man,  and  what  is  mo', 

He  neber  had  no  right  kind  of  a  wife. 

Even  in  this  little  ballad  Eve  bears  more  than  her 
share  of  the  blame.  "He  neber  had  no  right  kind  of  a 
wife."  Possibly  not,  but  Adam  was  a  weak  creature. 
He  needed  no  temptation,  he  was  just  as  ready  as  he 
could  be  for  that  apple,  and  even  a  woman  with  a  strong 
will  who  would  have  forbidden  him  to  eat  it  could  not 
have  stopped  him.  If  he  had  been  as  contrary  as  many 
men,  just  to  show  his  independence  of  character,  he 
would  have  eaten  two  apples  instead  of  one. 


The  Mississippi  River  277 

My  room  on  the  steamer  was  very  comfortable.  It 
was  furnished  with  a  double  brass  bedstead,  a  chest  of 
drawers,  an  ample  washstand,  and,  notwithstanding  the 
noise  at  the  landings,  I  slept  well.  Next  morning  we 
arrived  in  good  time  at  Natchez.  Mary  is  a  great  lover 
of  poetry,  and  she  roused  me  quite  early  saying,  "Get 
up,  sleepyhead;  here  we  are  in  Natchez-under-the- 
hill. "  I  was  very  regretful  at  being  disturbed  in  my 
unusual  slumber,  and  grumbled,  "And  what  of  Natchez- 
under-the-hill?"  "My  dear,"  she  said,  "don't  you 
remember  that  illustrious  gentleman,  Jim  Bludso?' 

"'He  were  n't  no  saint;  them  engineers 

Is  pretty  much  alike, 
One  wife  in  Natchez-under-the-hill 
And  another  one  here  in  Pike. ' " 

"Well,"  I  said,  "well." 

'"All  boats  has  their  day  on  the  Mississippi, 

And  her  day  came  at  last, 
The  Movastar  was  a  better  boat 

But  the  Belle  she  would  n't  be  passed ; 
And  so  she  came  tearin'  along  that  night, 

The  oldest  craft  on  the  line, 
.  With  a  nigger  squat  on  her  safety-valve, 
And  her  furnace  crammed,  rosin  and  pine. 

The  fire  bust  out  as  she  clar'd  the  bar, 

And  brunt  a  hole  in  the  night, 
And  quick  as  a  flash  she  turned  and  made 

For  that  wilier-bank  on  the  right. 
There  was  runnin'  and  cursin',  but  Jim  yelled  out 

Over  all  the  infernal  roar, 
"I  '11  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  galoot 's  ashore." 


278  My  Beloved  South 

Through  the  hot,  black  wreath  of  the  burnin'  boat, 

Jim  Bludso's  voice  was  heard, 
And  they  all  had  trust  in  his  cussedness 

And  knowed  he  would  keep  his  word. 
And,  sure  's  you  're  born,  they  all  got  off 

Afore  the  smokestacks  fell, 
And  Bludso's  ghost  went  up  alone 

In  the  smoke  of  the  Prairie  Belle. 

He  were  n't  no  saint  but  at  jedgment 

I  'd  run  my  chance  with  Jim, 
'Longside  of  some  pious  gentleman 

That  would  n't  a-shook  hands  with  him. ' " 

" Mary, "  I  said,  reproachfully,  "I  think  poetry  before 
breakfast  is  unbearable. " 

She  said,  "It  is  n't  before  breakfast;  here  is  a  cup  of 
coffee  I  Ve  brought  you  with  my  own  fair  hands.  It 
will  put  you  in  a  good  humour  at  once. " 

"I  remember,"  I  said,  "that  my  father  was  once 
blown  up  in  a  Mississippi  steamboat,  just  about  here  at 
Natchez.  There  is  a  legend  in  the  family  that  he  owed 
his  transparent  colour  to  the  accident.  His  skin  before 
that  was  somewhat  dark  and  sallow,  but  after  he  had 
been  scalded  and  parboiled,  it  all  peeled  off  and  he  came 
out  with  a  beautiful  pink  and  white  complexion.  Not 
only  that,  but  he  was  a  hero,  having  pushed  a  woman 
and  her  little  boy  into  his  place  in  the  lifeboat ;  therefore 
he  shared  the  fate  of  the  captain  and  the  sailors  when 
the  boat  was  blown  up.  He  said  the  last  recollection  he 
had  of  anything  was  of  a  Methodist  clergyman  rushing 
up  and  down  the  deck  with  his  child  in  his  arms,  scream- 
ing, '  O  God,  save  me  and  my  little  boy !  0  God,  save 
me  and  my  little  boy!'  As  to  the  fate  of  the  other 
little  boys  and  the  people  on  the  boat  he  was  supremely 


The  Mississippi  River  279 

indifferent,  if  God  would  only  save  him  and  his  little 
boy.  My  father  was  fished  up  out  of  the  river  in  an 
insensible  condition,  terribly  burned,  and  carried  to 
shore,  where  he  was  nursed  in  kindly  fashion  for  weeks 
by  the  family  of  a  planter.  Except  for  one  or  two  scars 
on  his  beautiful  hands  there  was  nothing  to  tell  of  the 
disaster." 

Natchez  was  before  the  war  one  of  the  richest  places 
on  the  Mississippi,  and  it  is  certain  in  time  to  recover 
its  prosperity.  There  is  no  place  on  the  river  with 
more  beautiful  natural  advantages.  The  high  bluffs 
slope  sharply  down  to  the  broad  and  impressive  water 
and  there  are  any  number  of  splendid  ante-bellum 
houses  that  speak  of  its  former  riches  and  import- 
ance. For  that  reason,  probably,  William  Edward 
West  settled  here  as  a  portrait  painter.  He  was 
the  artist  who  afterwards  painted  Byron  in  his  "sky- 
blue  bombazine  and  Camelot  frock  coat,"  and  the 
Countess  Guiccioli,  with  her  romantic  appearance  and 
hair  of  deep  auburn  colour,  flowing  over  her  shoulders 
in  profuse  ringlets.  He  also  painted  Rebecca  Gratz, 
the  original  of  "Ivanhoe,"  Washington  Irving  having 
inspired  Sir  Walter  to  this  romance  by  his  praise  of  the 
young  American  Jewish  girl  who  had  parted  from  her 
adored  Christian  lover  rather  than  give  up  the  faith  of 
her  fathers.  Another  of  West's  delightful  portraits 
was  one  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  and  he  painted  the  genial, 
kindly  Washington  Irving,  with  a  slight  cast  in  his  eye, 
which  he  undoubtedly  had,  for  West  was  true  to  life. 
Among  the  numerous  portraits  of  famous  persons  left 
by  him,  the  chef  d'ceuvre  is  that  of  Shelley.  This, 
painted  after  years  o  serious  study  abroad,  was  in 
Richmond,  but  I  scarcely  expected  to  see  it. 

Those  old  planters  in  Natchez  travelled  and  knew 


280  My  Beloved  South 

something  of  art.  They  saw  the  talent  of  West,  but 
also  that  he  could  not  draw,  and  his  portrait  of  Doctor 
Brown  sent  him  to  that  fount  of  all  inspiration,  Italy, 
where  he  became  not  only  a  good  draughtsman  but 
mastered  his  art. 

An  ante-bellum  home  in  Natchez  of  special  note  is 
that  of  Mrs.  Benneville  Rhodes.  It  was  built  by  her 
great-grandmother  and  the  architecture  is  of  the 
simplest  but  is  also  the  most  satisfying  and  best.  The 
hall,  probably  forty  feet  long,  and  proportionately 
broad,  runs  the  whole  length  of  the  house.  On  one 
side  of  it  is  the  drawing-room.  The  walls  are  covered 
with  old-fashioned  white  and  gold  French  paper.  The 
enormous  windows  are  curtained  with  dull  yellow  bro- 
cade, the  velvet  carpet  has  a  white  ground  with  a 
design  of  amber  and  old  rose,  and  the  furniture  is  of 
carved  rosewood,  so  beloved  in  the  old  South.  The 
room,  wisely  left  to  its  own  dignity,  is  not  overcrowded 
in  the  modern  fashion  by  little  fancy  objects  having  no 
relation  to  the  period  of  the  furniture,  and  the  result 
is  a  sense  of  peace  and  repose.  Across  the  hall  is  a 
music-room,  the  great  dining-room,  the  library,  and, 
in  Southern  fashion,  an  unusually  wide  gallery  runs 
from  one  end  of  the  house  to  the  other.  The  house 
although  standing  in  the  town  of  Natchez  is  set  in  a 
beautiful  park  of  sixty-five  acres,  wooded  with  splen- 
did specimens  of  giant  live-oaks,  softly  draped  with 
pennants  of  moss.  The  garden  contains  a  miniature 
copy  of  the  Maze  at  Hampton  Court,  and  is  sweet 
with  myriads  of  roses  and  all  the  old-fashioned  flowers. 

The  family  who  inhabit  this  beautiful  old  place 
complete  the  picture.  The  eldest  daughter,  with  her 
satin  complexion,  regular  features,  and  fair  shining  hair 
worn  back  from  her  white  forehead  a  la  pompadour,  is 


The  Mississippi  River  281 

like  nothing  so  much  as  an  exquisite  Dresden  statuette. 
The  youngest  daughter,  with  dark  hair,  well-marked 
eyebrows,  brilliant  dark  eyes,  dressed  in  simple  white 
muslin,  blue  sash,  white  stockings,  and  the  tiniest  of 
black  velvet  slippers,  looked  as  if  a  modest  heroine  of 
Jane  Austen's  had  stepped  out  of  one  of  the  old  English 
portraits  hanging  in  the  hospitable  hall. 

This  was  not  Jim  Bludso's  Natchez-under-the-hill 
but  a  very  aristocratic,  fine  flavoured,  Natchez-over- 
the-hill.  In  our  drive  about  the  lovely  old  town,  Mr. 
Rhodes  directed  my  attention  to  the  magnificent  view 
beyond  the  river,  the  bluish  hills  in  the  extreme  dis- 
tance, and  one  or  two  softly  wooded  islands,  surrounded 
by  the  pink  haze  of  a  perfect  sunset.  He  said,  "Now 
and  then  I  throw  off  the  fetters  of  civilisation  and 
that  is  where  I  go  hunting  and  fishing.  There  is  an 
occasional  bear  to  be  found,  with  deer,  hares,  ducks,  and 
plenty  of  birds  and  wild  turkeys.  And  nothing  so 
rests  my  spirit  and  puts  me  in  such  good  temper  as  a 
solitary  two  weeks'  hunt,  for  in  every  American  there 
is  a  trace  of  the  Indian  hunter. " 

A  little  "toot "  reminded  us  that  the  train  was  coming 
and  we  wended  our  way  to  the  station.    ' '  Don't  forget, 
said  Mr.  Rhodes,  as  I  got  into  the  train,  "that  you 
promised  to  send  those  English  broad  beans.     I  want 
to  see  what  I  can  do  with  them  in  the  South. " 

I  replied,  "I  '11  remember.  I  'm  Old  Reliable.  But 
don't  you  forget  to  give  them  plenty  of  water,  for 
everything  grown  in  England  is  accustomed  to  hu- 
midity." 

I  have  sent  the  beans,  and  am  some  day  to  know  how 
they  like  American  soil. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HARRIS  DICKSON 

Of  friendship  one  can  never  lightly  speak;  ' 

It  is  the  eye  of  Heaven  to  the  soul; 
Without  it  life  were  pitiless  and  bleak, 

And  wanton  self  in  us  lost  to  control. 

O  friend,  be  thou  my  mirror,  and  advise 

How  best  my  soul  may  please  thy  watchful  eyes. 

LILIAN  STREET. 

'T'HERE  has  never  been  a  country  in  the  whole  world 
1  where  the  flower  of  friendship  has  blossomed  so 
luxuriantly,  or  breathed  such  a  sweet  perfume  as  in  the 
South.  The  whole  conditions  of  life  have  lent  them- 
selves to  the  growth  of  this  grateful  and  blessed  plant. 
Before  the  war,  the  opulent  hospitality,  the  many 
servants,  the  rigid  line  drawn  between  the  upper  and 
the  lower  classes  led  to  constant  intermarriage  be- 
tween the  old  families,  and  to  an  intimacy  so  close  as 
virtually  to  establish  a  kinship.  Then  came  those 
terrible  years  of  bloodshed  that  prostrated  and  impov- 
erished the  entire  land,  but  they  brought  out  the 
tenderness,  loyalty,  inborn  pride,  and  endurance  of  the 
Southern  character.  Through  all  the  darkened  atmo- 
sphere burned  a  clear  white  flame,  as  strong  and  pure 
and  steady  as  though  lighted  by  the  hand  of  a  saint  on  a 
holy  altar — the  light  of  friendship.  There  was  no 

282 


Harris  Dickson  283 

luxurious  comfort  or  material  benefit  now,  only  self- 
sacrifice,  unspoken  tenderness,  and  sympathy  silently 
expressed — words  would  have  brought  tears,  and  for  a 
proud  heart  and  soul  a  covering  is  necessary.  So,  poor 
and  weary  and  sad  and  broken,  the  South  was  still 
richer  in  love  than  any  other  country.  War  had  de- 
vastated the  land ;  the  flowers  in  the  garden  were  dead ; 
but  the  flower  of  friendship,  watered  by  long  years  of 
blood  and  tears,  bloomed  brighter  than  ever,  for  senti- 
ment is  indestructible.  And  to-day,  nearly  half  a 
century  since  the  war,  this  tender  plant  still  blooms 
hardily  and  tropically  in  the  South.  The  thick  leaves 
rustle  and  move  to  announce  the  coming  of  this  rich 
blossom  of  the  heart. 

When  in  Vicksburg  I  met  Harris  Dickson  for  the 
first  time,  and  the  flower  of  friendship  quickly  bloomed 
for  us.  Perhaps  an  aid  to  our  rapid  understanding  was 
his  relief  in  finding  that  I  did  not  answer  to  the  de- 
scription given  him  by  a  passenger  who  had  crossed  on 
the  steamer  with  a  namesake  of  mine.  She  described 
me  as  a  "lady  who  wore  a  green  satin  dress,  gave 
lectures  on  the  Celtic  language,  and  was  surrounded  by 
admirers  of  the  opposite  sex."  Harris  Dickson  found  me 
wearing  a  reliable  English  blue  serge,  surrounded  by 
solitude,  very  eager  to  listen, — to  learn  and  not  to 
lecture.  After  some  days  he  asked  me  what  I  thought 
was  a  peculiar  question. 

"Have  you  a  green  satin  dress?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "but  if  you  like  a  green  satin  dress  I 
can  get  one." 

"And,"  he  asked,  "do  you  lecture  on  the  Celtic 
language?" 

'  'I  lecture  on  nothing,"  I  said,  "and  the  only  thing  I 
know  on  the  subject  is  that  when  George  Moore  was 


284  My  Beloved  South 

temporarily  an  enthusiastic  Irishman  he  issued  an  edict 
to  his  sister-in-law  for  his  two  nephews  to  learn  the 
Celtic  language  under  pain  of  disinheritance. " 

"Then, "  said  he,  "you  were  not  the  lady  who  crossed 
the  Atlantic  in  a  green  satin  dress,  delivered  a  lecture 
on  Celtic  lore,  and  was  vastly  admired  by  my  sex?" 

"  No, "  I  said,  "  I  have  no  lore.  I  know  too  much  for 
the  professional  charmer,  too  little  for  the  intellectual 
man,  and  nothing  for  the  politician,  so  my  friends 
among  your  exacting  sex  are  few. " 

"  Then  where, "  he  said,  "  do  I  come  in?  " 

"You,"  I  said,  "are  already  in,  through  the  open 
door  of  the  South." 

We  talked  together  for  two  days,  almost  without 
ceasing.  I  told  him  of  my  temerity  in  writing  a  book 
about  the  South. 

"My  only  equipment  is  twenty-five  years  of  home- 
sickness," I  explained. 

He  looked  kind  and  encouraging.  "Well,  never 
mind,"  he  said.  "Your  equipment  might  be  worse. 
Write  the  book ;  have  it  typed  with  wide  margins ;  send 
it  here  and  I  will  look  it  over  and  give  you  any  sugges- 
tions that  occur  to  me. " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say, "  I  asked,  "that  you  are  going 
to  edit  my  book?" 

He  smiled.  "That's  what  it  looks  like,"  he  an- 
swered. And  the  bud  of  the  flower  of  friendship  burst 
into  grateful  blossom.  Why  should  a  busy,  talented 
writer  offer  to  take  such  infinite  trouble?  Because  he 
recognised  in  me  a  woman  of  the  old  South,  the  South 
of  appeal,  of  helplessness,  while  he  is  a  man  of  the 
young  South,  the  South  of  helpfulness,  of  progress, 
and  still,  thank  Heaven,  of  impulsive  generosity. 

While  we  walked  about  historic  Vicksburg  he  said, 


Harris  Dickson  285 

"Would  you  like  to  see  the  old  quarters  where  I  began 
my  career  as  a  very  youthful  stenographer  of  twelve?" 

I  said,  "Certainly  I  should,  and  I  am  sure  you  were 
quite  a  decent  stenographer,  even  at  that  age. " 

"Well,  if  I  hadn't  been,"  he  said,  "they  would 
have  turned  me  down. " 

"How  I  envy  you  people  versed  in  stenography,"  I 
said.  "It  is  one  of  the  most  useful  things  in  the  world 
for  every  writer,  every  journalist,  and  every  thinker. 
The  mind  receives  no  better  drilling  than  the  study  of 
shorthand.  It  is  woman's  best  friend,  and  it  is  no  less 
useful  to  man." 

"You  speak, "  he  said,  "like  a  sage  in  a  copy-book. " 

In  the  meantime  we  had  arrived  at  the  Court-House, 
and  as  the  court  was  not  sitting  we  could  wander  over 
it  at  our  own  sweet  will.  The  old  janitor  was  at  the  door. 
Harris  Dickson  said,  "You  must  stop  and  speak  to  him; 
he  is  one  of  the  best-mannered  gentlemen  in  the  town. " 

The  Court-House  is  a  fine  classical  building,  and  it 
had  the  quiet  and  restfulness  about  it  of  concentrated 
thought,  and  moreover  there  was  the  delightful  odour  of 
books  and  papers  that  I  remember  as  a  little  girl,  for  I 
drove  to  court  every  morning  with  my  father,  who  very 
often  took  me  into  one  of  the  court-rooms  for  a  few 
moments  before  he  kissed  me  good-bye  and  sent  me 
home  with  my  mammy. 

My  father  had  the  same  passionate  tenderness  for  me 
that  George  III  gave  to  his  little  daughter,  the  Princess 
Amelia,  and  like  her 

Unthinking,  idle,  wild  and  young, 

I  laughed  and  danced  and  talked  and  sang, 

And  proud  of  health,  of  freedom  vain, 

Concluding  in  those  hours  of  glee 

That  all  the  world  was  made  for  me. 


286  My  Beloved  South 

Amelia  died  young,  the  world  was  not  made  for  her. 
Nor  was  it  made  for* me,  as  I  was  soon  to  find  out, 
through  the  severe  and  continual  discipline  of  my  step- 
mother, Fate.  But  even  she  cannot  rob  me  of  memory, 
and  every  trifle  connected  with  my  father  is  inexpress- 
ibly dear  to  me,  and  so  I  have  an  affection  for  all  the 
old  court-houses. 

"Don't  you  want,"  said  Harris  Dickson,  "to  see  the 
pictures  on  the  walls?  There  is  one  of  Sergeant 
Prentiss. " 

"  Mr.  Prentiss?  "  I  said.  "Why,  my  father  knew  him 
well."  And  I  quickly  climbed  on  a  chair  to  get  a 
better  view  of  the  fine,  lean  face,  with  the  wonderful, 
penetrating,  spiritual  eyes  and  the  aquiline  nose. 

"Do  you  remember,"  I  said,  "the  description  of  him 
by  Henry  Wise  of  Virginia?  'His  eyes  were  set  deep  in 
his  head,  large,  clear,  full  of  animation  and  hidden  fires. 
When  looked  into,  they  returned  the  glance,  which,  like 
that  of  Lara,  "dared  you  to  forget." 

"Yes, "  he  said,  "and  even  after  half  a  century,  in  this 
Jim  old  portrait  those  eyes  still  'dare  you  to  forget.'" 

I  remember  quite  well  my  father  reading  me,  for  he 
was  himself  a  man  of  peace  and  sweet  reason,  Prentiss's 
"Eulogy  on  Lafayette,"  in  which  he  said :  "  Napoleon  was 
the  bright  fiery  comet,  shooting  wildly  through  realms 
of  space,  scattering  terror  and  pestilence  among  nations ; 
while  Lafayette  was  a  pure  and  brilliant  planet  beneath 
whose  grateful  beams  the  mariner  directs  his  barque 
and  the  shepherd  tends  his  flocks.  Napoleon  died,  and 
a  few  of  the  old  warriors  of  Marengo  and  Austerlitz 
bewailed  their  chief;  Lafayette  died,  and  the  tears  of  the 
whole  civilised  world  attested  the  mourning  for  his 
loss." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Harris  Dickson,  "you  remember  his 


Harris  Dickson  287 

famous  address  in  New  Orleans  in  1847  on  behalf  of  the 
Irish,  asking  for  money  for  the  famine?  He  said, 
'  Freely  have  your  hearts  and  your  purses  opened  here- 
tofore to  the  call  of  struggling  humanity ;  nobly  did  you 
respond  to  oppressed  Greece  and  suffering  Poland. 
Within  Erin's  borders  is  an  enemy  more  cruel  than  the 
Turk,  more  tyrannical  than  the  Russian.  Bread  is  the 
only  weapon  that  can  conquer  that  enemy.  Send 
bread,  load  your  ships  with  this  glorious  ammunition, 
and  wage  war  against  this  despot — Famine.  Let  us, 
in  Christ's  name,  cast  our  bread  upon  the  waters.' " 

"He  possessed,"  I  replied,  "the  eloquent  oratory  of 
the  South.  He  was  a  true  Southerner,  and  never  forgot 
how  Mississippi  opened  her  arms  and  welcomed  him 
when  he  arrived,  an  unknown  young  lawyer.  His 
character  was  so  complex  I  wonder  no  one  has  made  him 
the  hero  of  a  novel.  Henry  Wise  said  of  him,  'Every 
trait  of  his  noble  mind  was  in  excess.  His  very  virtues 
leaned  to  faults,  and  his  faults  themselves  were  virtues, 
so  combined  was  he  of  all  sorts  of  contradictions,  with- 
out one  characteristic  which  did  not  contradict  and 
charm.  He  was  naturally  a  spendthrift,  yet  of  sound 
judgment  and  great  discretion.  He  had  the  least 
charity  for  any  kind  of  baseness  and  meanness,  and  the 
greatest  charity  for  the  unceasing  weakness  of  human 
nature.  He  was  learned  in  classical  lore,  and  not  a 
pedant.  He  was  brave  to  foolhardiness,  but  would 
not  hurt  a  flower.'  What  a  fascinating  combination! 
What  a  psychological  study!" 

"And  now,"  said  Harris  Dickson,  "that  we  have 
exhausted  the  Court-House,  what  about  a  look  at  the 
Military  Park?" 

We  talked  of  other  things  on  our  way  there,  and  I  was 
unprepared  for  the  splendid  commemoration  of  that 


288  My  Beloved  South 

long  and  bloody  siege  of  three  months,  when  in  1863,  in 
the  very  sight  and  sound  of  home,  the  Confederate 
army  fought  every  inch  of  ground  with  wonderful 
precision  and  prowess,  making  a  heroic  and  brilliant 
defence  until,  undermined  by  saps  and  outlying  ap- 
proaches, they  were  gradually  folded  in  the  vise-like 
and  deadly  embrace  of  the  Federal  artillery  until  every 
man  had  to  choose  between  death  and  surrender. 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards 

A  storm  of  shell  and  shot 
Rained  round  us  in  a  flaming  shower, 

But  still  we  faltered  not. 
'If  the  noble  city  perish, ' 

Our  brave  young  leader  said, 
'Let  the  only  walls  the  foe  shall  scale 

Be  the  ramparts  of  the  dead ! ' 

1  For  sixty  days  and  upwards 

The  eye  of  Heaven  waxed  dim; 
And  e'en  throughout  God's  holy  morn 

O'er  Christian  prayer  and  hymn 
Arose  a  hissing  tumult, 

As  if  the  fiends  in  air 
Strove  to  engulf  the  voice  of  faith 

In  the  shrieks  of  their  despair. 

What  an  indescribable  thrill  of  emotion  this  battle- 
ground, once  dyed  with  blood,  gave  me,  in  spite  of  the 
beauty  of  its  soft,  misty  valleys  and  high  green  hills 
overlooking  the  wide  brown  waters  of  the  Yazoo  and  the 
Mississippi.  If  war  is  man's  inevitable  lot,  as  Homer 
Lea  says  it  is,  then  this  site,  with  its  natural  redoubts 
and  fortifications,  its  strategic  location  for  cannon,  its 
unexpected  windings  and  safeguarded  retreats,  was 
made  for  war.  There  are  now  one  hundred  and  twenty- 


Harris  Dickson  289 

seven  guns  in  the  Park,  sixty-five  of  them  Union  and 
sixty- two  Confederate  guns,  a  hundred  and  fourteen 
field  guns  on  light  carriages  and  thirteen  heavy  guns  on 
siege  carriages,  the  replica  of  those  used  during  the 
defence.  There  are  eight  hundred  and  ninety-six 
tablets  each  giving  an  account  of  the  siege  from  one 
side  or  the  other,  with  the  number  of  killed,  wounded, 
and  saddest  of  all,  missing.  Many  white  stones  are 
scattered  about,  each  one  marking  the  position  occupied 
by  one  thousand  men.  There  are  splendid  monuments, 
marble  shafts,  columns,  and  statues  of  the  different 
Confederate  and  Federal  generals.  When  the  Park  is 
finished  each  brigade,  division,  and  corps  commander — 
Confederate  or  Union  officer — will  be  placed  in  the  line 
of  his  command  during  the  siege  and  defence.  The 
siege  then  will  be  set  in  such  order  that  a  child  will 
understand  it. 

When  the  twilight  fell  it  was  easy  to  imagine  the 
lines  of  grey  mist  were  the  Confederate  troops,  while  the 
long  blue  shadows  moving  steadily  against  them  were 
the  Union  army.  There  never  was  more  desperate 
fighting  than  on  this  battlefield.  Mississippi  lads, 
young  boys  of  fifteen  and  sixteen,  would  look  towards 
Vicksburg,  almost  within  the  sound  of  their  mothers' 
voices,  and  ask,  when  mortally  wounded,  to  be  carried 
back  to  the  trenches,  where  they  could  die  fighting. 
One  boy  of  sixteen  lost  both  legs  below  the  knee  by  a 
shell.  After  the  blood  was  staunched  he  begged  for  a 
trench  and  a  gun,  and  fought  on,  and  still  he  fought— 
until  a  merciful  bullet  pierced  his  gallant  heart. 

Even  in  the  midst  of  carnage  there  were  some  grimly 
amusing  incidents.  General  Grant  says  in  his  Memoirs: 

On  the  25th  of  June  at  three  o'clock,  all  being  ready,  the 


290  My  Beloved  South 

mine  was  exploded.  A  heavy  artillery  fire  all  along  the 
line  had  been  ordered  to  open  with  the  explosion.  The 
effect  was  to  blow  the  top  of  the  hill  off  and  make  a  crater 
where  it  stood.  The  breach  was  not  sufficient  to  enable  us 
to  pass  a  column  of  attack  through;  in  fact  the  enemy, 
having  failed  to  reach  our  mine,  had  thrown  up  a  line 
farther  back,  where  most  of  the  men  guarding  that  point 
were  placed.  There  were  a  few  men,  however,  left  at  the 
advance  line,  and  others  working  in  the  countermine,  which 
was  still  being  pushed  to  find  ours.  All  that  were  there 
were  thrown  into  the  air,  some  of  them  coming  down  on  our 
side  still  alive.  I  remember  one  coloured  man,  who  had 
been  underground  at  work  when  the  explosion  took  place, 
who  was  thrown  to  our  side.  He  was  not  much  hurt,  but 
terribly  frightened.  Some  one  asked  him  how  high  he  had 
gone  up,  "Dunno,  massa,  but  t'ink  'bout  three  mile,"  was 
his  reply.  General  Logan  commanded  at  this  point  and 
took  this  coloured  man  to  his  quarters,  where  he  did  service 
to  the  end  of  the  siege 

And  ^hile  the  soldiers  fought  on  land,  the  sailors 
cannonaded  from  the  water.  The  very  air  was  black 
with  smoke,  shells  whistled,  rushed,  and  exploded  in  the 
air,  sending  pieces  of  iron  like  javelins  to  deal  death 
wherever  they  found  the  mark.  The  clank  of  the 
artillery's  ceaseless  slow  move,  the  loud  roar  of  cannon, 
the  scream  of  the  coehorns  from  the  barges,  and  the 
sudden  explosion  of  the  shells,  made  such  a  diabolical 
noise  that  many  men  became  temporarily  deaf.  There 
are  one  thousand  two  hundred  and  eighty-eight  acres 
of  ground,  and  almost  every  foot  of  these  thirty  miles  of 
land  has  at  one  time  or  another  been  wet  with  blood. 
For  it  was  the  fighting  line  of  a  three  months',  long 
drawn  out,  ragged,  intermittent,  desperate  battle. 
And  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  steady,  cool,  persistent, 


Harris  Dickson  291 

dogged  courage  of  General  Grant  the  siege  would  have 
lasted  longer  even  than  sixty  days.  Day  and  night  he 
worked  his  army,  digging  saps,  toiling  in  the  trenches, 
marching  corps  after  corps  of  cavalry,  infantry,  and 
artillery  towards  that  superhumanly  invincible,  steady 
grey  line,  until  they  planted  their  colour  staffs  on  more 
than  one  Confederate  redoubt.  His  kind  and  noble 
heart  must  have  suffered  to  see  the  Confederate  soldiers 
who  fought,  many  of  them  young  boys,  but  they  died  like 
men,  with  their  faces  turned  towards  Vicksburg.  Their 
battle  was  fought  at  home,  there  was  no  need  to  fire  these 
young  hearts  with  "  I  live  and  die  in  Dixie. "  They  had 
lived  in  it  all  their  lives,  and  the  most  glorious  of  all 
deaths  was  to  die  for  it. 

Vicksburg  the  town  suffered  horribly,  too,  with  gun- 
boats at  her  side,  their  guns  pointing  towards  her  very 
heart,  the  coehorns  in  the  barges  screaming  until  her 
brain  was  paralised,  shells  bursting  everywhere,  making 
holes  in  the  sides  of  houses,  burning  others  to  the 
ground.  It  was,  indeed,  a  pitiful  town  on  the  day  of  the 
final  surrender. 

"Come  up  here  and  see  this  fort,"  said  Harris  Dick- 
son;  "there  is  a  legend  that  it  has  been  a  fortified  posi- 
tion under  six  flags.  First,  it  was  an  Indian  fort.  The 
French  took  it  from  them,  and  ceded  it  to  the  Spaniards ; 
then  the  Spaniards  ceded  it  again  to  France.  Later  it 
became  a  fort  of  the  British  empire,  then  a  fort  of  the 
Thirteen  Colonies,  as  it  was  the  western  edge  at  that 
time  of  the  colony  of  Georgia.  The  Confederates 
fortified  the  place,  and  after  the  surrender  of  Pem- 
berton  the  Stars  and  Stripes  once  more  floated  over 
it." 

"Look,"  I  said,  "what  lovely  anemones  are  growing 
here ;  they  are  a  purple  red. " 


292  My  Beloved  South 

"Yes,"  said  Harris  Dickson, 

" '  I  sometimes  think  that  never  blooms  so  red 
The  rose  as  where  some  buried  Caesar  bled. ' ' 

We  walked  higher  up  the  hill  towards  the  Illinois 
memorial,  a  splendid  dome  of  pure  marble  with  a  long 
flight  of  steps  at  the  entrance.  The  inner  wall  is  lined 
with  tablets  of  bronze  bearing  the  names  of  thirty-five 
thousand  soldiers  from  the  State  of  Illinois  who  took 
part  in  the  campaign  and  siege  of  Vicksburg.  As  we 
stood  inside  the  dome  two  old  men  slowly  entered,  poor 
and  shabby,  evidently  failures  in  life;  but  they  were 
once  young  and  heroes  on  this  field,  for  slowly  and 
hesitatingly  they  traced  with  toil-worn  fingers  long 
columns  of  names  until  they  found  their  own.  In  all 
else  they  had  fallen  short,  but  they  were  on  the  roll-call 
of  glory!  It  saddened  us  to  see  them,  they  so  embodied 
the  relentlessness  of  Fate. 

We  got  out  into  the  fresh  air  and  walked  to  the  monu- 
ment of  the  State  of  Wisconsin.  It  is  a  tall  marble 
shaft,  surmounted  by  a  splendid  war  eagle,  his  wings  not 
outstretched  but  folded  close  against  his  body.  He  sits 
sternly  brooding,  with  his  fierce  head  in  clear  profile. 
The  First  Wisconsin  regiment  carried  an  eagle  all 
through  the  war.  He  often  perched  on  the  colour  staff, 
and  was  such  a  very  intrepid  and  manly  bird  that  they 
called  him  after  President  Lincoln  "Old  Abe."  But 
when  he  returned  after  the  disbandment  of  the  troops  to 
Wisconsin  and  was  comfortably  housed,  fed,  and  placed 
in  a  cage  with  other  eagles,  he  promptly  laid  a  nestful  of 
eggs  and  unblushingly  hatched  them  out  like  any  ordin- 
ary mother.  The  eagle  was  only  a  vivandiere  after  all, 
but  a  clever  one  to  deceive  a  regiment  by  her  brave 
daring  and  masculine  courage,  and  she  is  not  the  only 


Harris  Dickson  293 

female  who  has  fought  through  an  entire  war  without 
her  sex  being  discovered. 

The  first  monument  erected  in  the  Park  by  the  State 
of  Massachusetts  was  conceived  and  executed  by  a 
woman,  Mrs.  H.  H.  Kitson,  and  is  perhaps  the  most 
beautiful  of  them  all.  On  a  large  natural  boulder  a 
young,  tall,  vigorous  soldier  in  undress  uniform, 
peaked  cap,  and  musket  carried  carelessly  over  his 
shoulder,  steps  buoyantly  along,  with  a  long  free  stride, 
showing  the  young  sap  and  splendid  joy  of  life.  His 
open,  candid,  boyish  face  looks  like  that  of  a  moun- 
taineer, and  the  tilt  of  his  head  is  brave  and  confident. 
It  is  an  attractive  figure,  so  full  of  movement  and 
vitality  that  it  brings  the  horror  of  war  and  death 
tragically  before  you. 

The  setting  sun  had  turned  the  brown  water  of  the 
Mississippi  River  to  a  wide  lake  of  gold,  the  green, 
rolling  hills  and  beautiful  purple  valleys  were  sending 
out  sweet,  thin  scents  of  early  spring,  as  we  walked 
home.  Harris  Dickson 's  house  is  ideally  situated  on 
the  edge  of  this  beautiful  Park,  and  we  found  Mrs. 
Dickson,  his  mother,  waiting  for  us.  She  is  a  remark- 
able woman,  and  her  son  inherits  much  of  his  talent,  and 
certainly  his  great  heart,  from  her.  She  is  full  of  love, 
the  love  of  the  mother — above  all  of  the  mother  and  of 
Home;  the  love  of  heroes,  of  poor  folks,  of  friends  and 
neighbours,  and  of  all  the  little  womanly  things  of  life. 

She  said  to  me,  "After  the  war  we  were  very  poor, 
but  I  have  never  been  too  poor  for  flowers,  for  friends, 
and  for  books."  And  what  a  prodigious  memory  is 
hers!  She  is  an  encyclopaedia  of  Thackeray,  and  is 
familiar  with  every  character  in  Dickens. 

"If  I  went  to  England,"  she  said,  "I  wouldn't  go 
first  to  Westminster  Abbey,  but  would  wander  out 


294  My  Beloved  South 

alone  to  see  Dickens'  London, -to  commune  in  spirit 
with  all  the  friends  he  gave  me  and  that  I  have  loved  so 
well.  I  would  like  to  see  the  places  where  they  have 
lived  and  loved  and  suffered  and  rejoiced  and  died. 
Ah,  poor  Lady  Dedlock!" 

"Bleak  House, "  I  said,  "  I  know  well  and  have  read  a 
score  of  times,  for  my  father  fell  so  in  love  with  Lady 
Dedlock's  daughter  that  he  begged  my  mother  to  call 
me  Esther  Summerson  after  her.  But  my  mother's 
beloved  sister,  my  aunt  Elizabeth  Beale,  had  given  her 
only  daughter,  Marcia,  my  mother's  name,  and  instead 
of  Esther  I  was  named  Elizabeth  after  my  aunt." 

"Do  you  know  Dickens'  London?"  asked  Mrs. 
Dickson. 

11  No, "  I  said,  "  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  don't. " 

"When  you  return  to  England, "  she  asked,  "will  you 
go  for  me  into  Buckingham  Street,  where  David  Copper- 
field  '  settled  himself  in  a  suite  of  rooms  including  a  little 
half -blind  entry  where  you  could  see  hardly  anything ;  a 
little  stone-blind  pantry,  where  you  could  see  nothing  at 
all,  a  sitting-room,  and  a  bedroom'?  And  then  go  and 
see  the  Marshalsea,  where  little  Dorrit  was  born. " 

I  said,  "  I  have  walked  under  the  beautiful  old  arches 
of  the  Temple  where  Tom  Pinch  worked  for  a  mysteri- 
ous employer,  and  I  Ve  seen  'Fountain  Court  all 
dappled  in  the  spring's  sunlight,'  where  Ruth  Pinch 
used  to  meet  her  brother  every  day  on  his  way  home 
from  work,  and  where  one  day  John  Westlock  was 
passing  too,  and  I  Ve  often  been  in  the  Paper  Building 
where  Mr.  Chester  had  chambers." 

"That, "  said  Mrs.  Dickson,  "is  where  Sydney  Carton 
went  after  the  trial  of  Darnay.  I  have  just  read  A 
Tale  of  Two  Cities  for  the  twentieth  time;  it  is  a  terrible 
and  graphic  picture  of  the  Reign  of  Terror  in  France, 


Harris  Dickson  295 

and  a  tender  and  touching  story  of  the  self -sacrifice  of 
Sydney  Carton — '  Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this, 
that  a  man  lay  down  his  life  for  his  friends. '  But  so 
many  of  my  friends  lived  in  London — the  impecunious 
Micawber,  poor  Barnaby  Rudge,  Little  Nell  and  her 
grandfather,  Miss  Flite,  who  went  about  with  her  bag  of 
papers  and  only  lived  for  the  celebrated  case  of  Jarndyce 
v.  Jarndyce.  And  you  must  find  for  me  the  site  of  the 
Old  Maypole  inn,  which  a  century  ago  was  twelve  miles 
from  London.  Perhaps  the  village  gossips  meet  there 
still  and  tell  tales  of  the  neighbouring  gentry  over  their 
tankards  of  ale." 

I  always  think  that  it  is  n't  reading  so  much  that 
matters,  it  is  remembering.  All  her  life  Mrs.  Dickson 
has  been  doing  both.  Living  in  Vicksburg  and  scarcely 
ever  out  of  it,  she  has  journeyed  the  world  over  in 
books  of  travel  and  is  a  woman  of  wide  interests  and 
cultivation. 

The  night  was  cool,  we  had  a  little  crackling  wood  fire, 
and  Harris  Dickson,  in  his  charming  voice,  and  in  the 
negro  dialect  I  love  so  well,  read  me  the  first  of  "Old 
Reliable's  Busy  Days,"  one  of  his  many  perfect  pictures 
of  the  utterly  inconsequent  life  of  the  negro  evolved 
by  freedom. 

"And  is  there,"  I  asked,  as  the  reading  ended,  "an 
Old  Reliable  in  the  flesh?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Harris  Dickson.  "There  is.  He's  a 
discovery  of  my  wife's.  Her  description  of  him  was  so 
graphic  it  gave  me  the  inspiration. " 

" His  experiences, "  I  asked,  "what  of  them? " 

"They,  of  course,  are  purely  imaginary,"  he  said. 

"But  quite  possible,"  I  said,  "and  indigenous  to  the 
South.  Zack  Foster  is  a  word  portrait  of  the  present- 
day  negro,  lazy,  irresponsible,  untrustworthy,  with  r^ 


296  My  Beloved  South 

sense  of  duty,  and  yet  amusing  and  forgivable.  Where 
is  it  all  going  to  end?  " 

"Ah,  where  indeed?"  said  my  kind  host;  "and  that 
knotty  problem  cannot  be  solved  to-night." 

I  had  completely  forgotten  the  hour  in  my  great 
enjoyment  of  the  reading.  I  said  good-night,  and,  while 
I  slept,  dreamt  of  Old  Reliable  knocking  at  my  door  and 
saying,  "  Colonel  Spottiswoode  is  downstairs  to  see  you. 
He  say  you  's  his  own  blood  kin,"  and  I  awoke,  sorry 
to  find  it  only  a  dream. 

I  love  Old  Reliable,  and  can  perfectly  understand  his 
day  of  unexpected  vagaries.  Later  in  the  spring  when 
I  went  to  New  York,  to  make  myself  keep  an  important 
engagement  in  Washington,  as  well  as  to  save  an  honest 
penny,  I  bought  a  return  ticket.  My  last  day  of  grace, 
I  lunched  with  Sally  Nixon  and  stayed  a  week.  Of 
course  I  had  a  powerful  inducement — Sally,  like  Little 
Boy  Blue,  has  only  to  blow  her  horn,  and  I  would  fol- 
low her  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  for  she  is  a  constant, 
clear,  joyous,  bubbling,  healing  spring  of  wit.  When  I 
am  with  her  I  laugh  and  eat,  and  under  that  hospitable 
roof  I  even  sleep.  What  a  mine  of  wealth  she  has  been 
to  her  husband,  the  most  tactful  of  wives,  the  most 
inspiring  of  comrades. 

In  my  experience  and  observation  of  hostesses  both 
in  America  and  in  Europe  Sally  is  without  a  peer.  She 
literally  has  every  qualification  for  this  role.  She  is 
joyously  pleased  to  see  people,  unlike  a  certain  lady  in 
England  whom  her  cousin  described  as  not  wanting  to 
give  a  party  and  not  one  of  the  guests  wanting  to  come 
to  the  party.  Sally,  on  the  contrary,  enjoys  her  parties. 
She  is  cordial,  agreeable,  perfectly  at  ease,  but  with 
eyes  that  survey  at  a  glance  her  entire  dinner  table,  or 
drawing-room,  and  no  one  is  ever  neglected  or  ill  at 


Harris  Dickson  297 

ease  for  one  moment.  A  pretentious  woman  said, ' '  Mrs. 
Nixon,  I  see  you  introduce  your  guests;  you  know  it 
is  n't  done  now." 

"Indeed?"  said  Sally.  "My  manners  were  taught 
me  by  my  grandmother,  an  old-fashioned  Southern 
lady  of  excellent  taste."  The  grandmother  of  the 
monitor  was  a  person  whom  she  wished  most  earnestly 
to  forget. 

Her  mind  is  as  quick  as  a  flash  and  she  is  gifted  with 
the  clear-eyed  wisdom  of  the  true  humourist.  I  said  to 
her,  "  Lewis  is  certainly  a  model  husband,  Sally. " 

"Yes, "  she  said,  "but  then  you  see  I  'm  the  wife  who 
has  never  said  'no.'  Think  of  it,  Bessie,  I  Ve  never 
said  '  no '  to  Lewis  since  we  Ve  been  married.  I  Ve 
thought  it,  and  I  Ve  meant  it,  but  I  Ve  never  once 
said  it.  There  is  something  about  men  that  rises  up 
in  rebellion  at  a  wife's  'no.'  If  Lewis  said  to  me  to- 
night '  We  will  start  to-morrow  for  Paraguay'  (wherever 
that  delectable  land  may  be),  I  should  instantly  say 
1  yes. '  You  see,  with  '  yes, '  so  many  things  can  happen. 
There  might  not  be  a  boat  to  Paraguay,  Lewis  might  be 
taken  ill  in  the  middle  of  the  night  with  influenza,  the 
papers  might  announce  in  the  morning  an  insurrection 
in  Paraguay,  or  an  earthquake  might  have  swallowed 
the  entire  country,  or,  what  is  quite  possible,  Lewis 
could  change  his  mind.  In  fact  it  is  always  safe  to 
say  'yes'  to  a  man.  I  can  always  say  'yes'  in  a  hun- 
dred different  ways — the  spontaneous  'yes'  when  I 
mean  it ;  the  temporising  '  yes, '  when  I  must  have  time 
to  think  things  over;  the  soothing  'yes'  when  I  mean 
'  No,  indeed,  not  if  I  know  it. '  Every  wise  woman  when 
she  gets  married  should  cut  the  word  'no'  out  of  her 
vocabulary.  You  can  say  'no'  occasionally  to  a  lover, 
but  never  to  a  husband. " 


298  My  Beloved  South 

I  said  at  lunch,  "You  will  forgive  my  hurrying  away, 
but  at  two  o'clock  I  have  an  appointment. " 

Sally's  kind  blue  eyes  looked  intensely  amused. 

"I  have,"  she  said,  helping  me  to  broiled  lobster,  "a 
little  programme  for  you. "  (Sally  is  a  splendid  house- 
keeper. Her  staff  expresses  in  a  marvellous  manner 
"the  unity  of  nations,"  for  she  has  a  negro  cook,  an 
Italian  kitchen  boy,  a  Japanese  butler  and  footman,  a 
French  lady's  maid,  an  Irish  housemaid,  and  yet, 
strange  to  relate,  harmony  exists  in  her  household.) 

"The  butler,"  continued  Sally,  "will  telephone  and 
put  off  your  engagement.  The  motor  will  be  at  the 
door  in  five  minutes;  we  will  go  to  your  friends,  the 
Wassermans, "  (I  was  staying  at  the  time  with  my 
beautiful  friend  Renee);  "I  will  wait  at  the  door  while 
you  pack  your  trunk;  the  footman  will  put  it  in  the 
motor  and  we  will  leave  it  here  on  our  way  to  the  railway 
station,  where  your  return  ticket  will  be  deposited  and 
changed  for  one  of  later  date.  We  will  then  drive  in  the 
Park  and  take  tea  at  the  Plaza,  where  you  will  see  all 
the  pretty  ladies  in  their  smart  clothes.  And  you  will 
stay  with  me  for  a  week,  if  not  longer. " 

All  of  which  programme  I  carried  out  to  the  letter. 

The  night  before  I  left  New  York,  John  Savage  called 
me  up  on  the  telephone  and  said,  "Are  you  really  going 
to-morrow  or,  like  Old  Reliable,  have  you  got  another 
job  on  hand?" 

I  did  go  next  day.  Sally  came  to  my  room  to  say 
good-bye,  carrying  a  rose-flowered  bandbox,  the  kind 
affected  in  musical  comedy  when  the  humble  but  lovely 
milliner,  in  an  exquisitely  fitting  black  gown,  costing  at 
the  least,  in  its  fetching  simplicity,  one  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars,  arrives  to  try  a  hat  on  the  haughty  beauty. 
The  audience  have  no  anxiety ;  they  know  that  the  neat 


Harris  Dickson  299 

black  dress  and  the  song,  with  the  bandbox  suspended 
to  her  arm  by  a  ribbon,  will  win  the  manly  tenor. 

Sally  said,  "  I  bought  a  black  and  white  hat  yesterday 
that  looked  just  like  you — take  it  with  my  love,  and 
hurry,  for  you  are  late. " 

The  bandbox  did  not  go  so  far  as  to  give  me  a  tenor, 
but  it  did  lead  to  my  acquaintance  with  a  keen-eyed, 
clever  young  surgeon,  Dr.  Kenneth  Kellogg.  That, 
however,  is  another  story.  The  hat,  light  as  a  feather, 
pleasant  to  wear,  was,  like  Sally,  a  joy  through  all  the 
summer,  and  if  Fate  will  be  as  kind  to  me,  her  Old 
Reliable,  as  Harris  Dickson  is  to  his  Old  Reliable  in 
happily  extricating  him,  sooner  or  later,  from  his 
difficulties,  then  I  may  expect,  after  all,  a  happy  ending 
to  my  sad  story. 


CHAPTER  XX 

A    PRESENT-DAY    PLANTATION 

"  I  THINK  it  would  be  a  good  plan  for  you, "  said 

1  Harris  Dickson  a  few  days  later,  "to  go  to  Atlanta 
and  join  a  car  there  which  is  taking  a  delegation  from 
the  Agricultural  Department  through  the  country.  It 
will  be  a  splendid  opportunity  for  you  to  see  the  fine 
work  they  are  doing. " 

"But,"  I  said,  "Atlanta  is  sixteen  hours  at  least  from 
Vicksburg.  They  have  n't  invited  me  to  go  with  them; 
they  don't  even  know  of  my  existence!" 

"Oh, "  he  said  airily,  "they  have  asked  me,  and  I  will 
appoint  you  as  a  delegate  in  my  place.  They  will  be 
delighted  to  receive  you.  The  cars  stop  wherever  they 
are  needed  and  the  farmers  bring  up  sick  horses,  cows, 
sheep,  mules,  pigs,  and  even  chickens  and  ducks  for  a 
diagnosis.  You  will  see  all  the  methods  of  this  splendid 
department  of  the  Government  which  is  rendering  such 
a  practical  service  to  the  farmer,  gardener,  shepherd, 
ranchman,  the  breeder  of  race  horses,  and  the  seeds- 
man." 

I  said,  "Senator  Morgan  of  Alabama  used  to  tell  a 
story  against  himself  about  seed.  He  had  been  for 
many  years  one  of  the  most  honoured  men  in  the  Senate, 
helping,  encouraging,  uplifting  the  South,  winning  back 
the  confidence  and  the  admiration  of  the  North,  work- 

300 


A  Present-Day  Plantation  301 

ing  night  and  day  at  the  knottiest  of  political  problems, 
never  sparing  himself  in  the  service  of  his  State  and  his 
country.  One  day  he  received  a  brief  letter  from  a 
fanner  headed: 

"'BLACK  JACK  FARM  near  MOBILE. 

"'SENATOR  MORGAN,  Seedsman: 

"  '  I  live  in  your  State  in  Alabama.  I  am  a  gardener  and 
will  be  obliged  if  you  will  send  me  from  the  Agricultural 
Department  any  and  all  seeds  that  will  grow  in  this  country. 

'"Faithfully, 

'"J.  CARTER/ 

"Senator  Morgan  said,  'At  last,  after  many  years,  I 
know  what  I  am.  I  thought  I  was  a  statesman ;  I  find  I 
am  only  a  seedsman.' " 

Harris  Dickson  said,  "The  Bible  says,  'the  seed  is 
the  word  of  God,'  and  seed  can  be  an  important  factor 
in  life,  let  me  tell  you.  I  know  a  Member  of  Congress 
whose  sole  claim  to  office  is  that  he  sends  out  seeds 
quite  regularly.  You  had  better  go  to  Georgia  and 
join  those  gifted  seedsmen  of  the  Agricultural  Depart- 
ment." 

"No,"  I  said,  "in  spite  of  the  possible  hospitality 
which  might  be  extended  to  me,  the  journey  of  sixteen 
hours  is  too  long.  Remember,  I  am  not  accustomed  to 
the  vast  distances  of  my  country  as  yet." 

"Then,"  he  said,  "the  next  best  thing  for  you  is  to 
pay  a  visit  to  Alfred  Holt  Stone  at  Dunleith.  He  is  a 
Southern  man  who  has  written  an  excellent  book  on  the 
American  race  problem,  and  he  knows  as  much  about 
the  South  as  anybody  in  it." 

So  he  called  up  on  the  long-distance  telephone  and 
confident  of  Southern  hospitality  informed  the  gentle- 


302  My  Beloved  South 

man  that  he  was  to  expect  a  visitor.  Mr.  Stone  was 
equal  to  the  occasion  and  said  he  and  Mrs.  Stone  would 
be  delighted  to  receive  me. 

The  next  day  I  started  for  Dunleith,  rather  in  a  state 
of  anxiety,  for  a  plantation  in  the  South  even  in  these 
days  can  be  primitive  and  uncomfortable,  and  there  is  a 
theory  that  literary  people  are  never  good  managers  or 
housekeepers.  Mr.  Stone  met  me  at  the  station  and 
dispelled  all  my  fears  at  once.  The  buggy,  a  reminder 
of  my  childhood,  was  in  perfect  trim,  and  Charles  (I 
subsequently  learned  his  name) ,  a  shining,  highly  curried, 
well  fed,  knowledgeable  grey  horse,  waited  while  his 
owner,  a  young,  well-groomed  man,  with  a  resolute, 
Napoleonic  face,  gave  me  a  warm  hand  of  welcome. 

"And  now, "  he  said,  "you  are  to  stay  on  the  planta- 
tion just  as  long  as  you  like  it.  Mrs.  Stone  is  delighted 
at  the  prospect  of  a  visitor  and  Dickson  told  me  over 
the  telephone  that  we  should  have  much  to  say  to  each 
other." 

When  we  got  into  the  buggy  Charles  made  good  time 
in  going  homewards.  How  agreeably  the  plantation 
surprised  me.  There  are  3500  acres  under  cultivation, 
planted  in  cotton  and  a  modicum  of  alfalfa.  There  are 
about  two  hundred  and  fifty  or  three  hundred  negroes 
on  the  place,  and  a  small  colony  of  Italians.  The  little 
whitewashed  houses  range  from  two  to  four  rooms,  the 
fences  are  neat  and  trim,  and  there  is  a  look  of  alert, 
intelligent,  brisk,  up-to-date  management  and  continu- 
ous progress  over  every  acre  and  every  foot  of  the 
plantation.  I  found  Mrs.  Stone  charming,  and  not 
only  a  model  housekeeper  but  a  most  intelligent  hostess. 
The  house  was  originally  an  old-fashioned  plantation 
house,  but  it  has  been  greatly  changed  and  improved. 
It  has  now  several  bathrooms  with  hot  and  cold  water, 


A  Present-Day  Plantation  303 

acetylene  gas,  wide  galleries  surrounding  it,  and  two 
libraries,  one  of  them  Mr.  Stone's  own  particular  work- 
room, while  the  second,  containing  an  excellent  selection 
of  books,  is  the  reading-room  of  the  family.  The  walls 
are  panelled  in  odorous  pine  and  my  room  was  the  most 
charming  one  I  occupied  in  America.  The  light  maple 
furniture  was  the  colour  of  the  pine  walls ;  there  was  an 
apple-green  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  all  the  little  appoint- 
ments of  the  room  were  lavender  and  green,  giving  a 
sense  of  coolness  and  freshness.  The  drawers  of  my 
dressing-table  held  large  sachets  of  lavender;  my  bed 
was  most  luxurious,  with  an  eiderdown  quilt  flowered  in 
lilacs;  the  bathroom,  with  its  tiled  floor,  white  porcelain 
bath-tub  and  wash-basin,  was,  like  so  many  American 
bathrooms,  a  pearl  to  be  remembered.  I  went  to  bed 
early  and  laid  me  down  with  a  thankful  heart  in  a 
beautiful  silence.  Oh,  that  blissful  silence!  so  deep  that 
it  penetrated  my  restless  heart,  wrapped  me  in  a  mantle 
of  velvet  peace,  and  gave  me  a  night  of  childhood's 
unmoving  sleep. 

Mrs.  Stone  is  a  great  believer  in  the  Agricultural 
Department.  She  has  raised  three  hundred  agricul- 
tural chickens  who  abode  not  so  very  far  from  my 
window,  and  yet  they  never  disturbed  me,  for  they  were 
well  organised,  calm,  and  collected  birds.  When  the 
hens  laid  in  the  morning  they  gave  a  full-throated 
cackle  to  announce  the  egg;  the  rooster  made  a  careless 
comment  on  it,  and  there  the  matter  ended.  They 
were  so  different  from  my  brother  Sam's  next-door 
neighbour's  chickens  at  Chevy  Chase — the  hens  when- 
ever they  laid  an  egg  went  into  loud,  wild  hysterics, 
while  the  rooster,  too,  seemed  to  be  utterly  unnerved 
and  loudly  astonished  by  the  event. 

So    I  have  been   advocating  ever  since   I   left  the 


304  My  Beloved  South 

Stone  plantation,  that  all  who  raise  chickens  send  for 
pamphlets  from  the  Agricultural  Department  and  go 
exactly  according  to  their  directions.  Even  the  roosters 
on  the  Stone  plantation  exercised  judgment  in  their 
announcement  of  the  dawn;  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning  they  gave  one  soft  crow  in  unison  and  then 
settled  down  to  a  well-bred  silence; — not,  as  in  other 
unscientific  chicken  yards,  a  faint  crow  at  a  quarter 
past  three  from  a  timid  young  bantam,  followed  five 
minutes  later  by  the  clarion  call  from  a  confident  middle- 
aged  rooster,  and  followed  by  hesitating  echoes  in  differ- 
ent keys  from  other  cocks  until  a  quarter  past  four — an 
agonising  hour  of  steady,  unmusical,  separated,  trying, 
intermittent  cock-a-doodle-doos. 

I  never  ate  canned  peaches  and  fruits  with  such  a 
fine  flavour  as  those  Mrs.  Stone  prepared  herself,  also 
according  to  the  bulletins  of  the  Agricultural  Depart- 
ment. After  a  delicious,  well-served  lunch,  when  I  went 
to  my  dainty  green-and-purple  bedroom  the  little  black 
maid  had  unpacked  my  bag  and  everything  was  put 
neatly  in  place.  We  had  already  had  driven  around 
the  plantation  but  Charles  was  put  into  requisition 
again  and  we  went  over  to  see  the  Italian  settlement. 
It  is  on  the  edge  of  a  thick,  primeval  forest.  A  strap- 
ping, black-eyed  girl  with  broad  shoulders,  dressed 
in  a  stout  linen  blouse,  a  black  skirt  well  pinned  up 
over  a  heavy  red  wool  petticoat,  was  ploughing  with 
a  strong,  grey  mule.  She  smiled  benignly  upon  us  as 
we  approached  and  said  "Good-morning."  Then  she 
headed  her  mule  in  another  direction  so  we  had  no 
conversation  with  her.  Mr.  Stone  speaks  of  the  Italians 
as  sober,  steady,  excellent  tenants,  doing  twice  the 
work  of  negroes,  but  they  hoard  the  money  they  make, 
and  it  does  not  circulate  again  on  the  plantation.  Pre- 


A  Present-Day  Plantation  305 

sumably  it  is  sent  over  to  Italy  for  investment,  as  it  is 
generally  said  that  Italians  have  a  strong  love  of  country 
and  always  hope  to  go  home  again. 

We  stopped  at  the  long  roomy  store,  where  the 
negroes  are  supplied  with  all  they  can  possibly  want.  It 
was  a  reminder  of  my  childhood  with  the  assortment  of 
flowered  muslins,  brilliant  calicoes,  straw  hats,  gaily 
coloured  quilts  and  counterpanes,  shoes  and  slippers, 
brooms  and  dusters,  china  and  glass,  beads  and  fans,  and 
lo  and  behold,  a  dream,  a  vision  realised — a  splendid 
black  harness  with  bright,  scarlet,  shining  blinkers. 
Now  what  in  the  world  could  be  more  becoming  to  a 
black  mule,  and  set  off  his  individual  beauty  so  well,  as 
sealing-wax  red  blinkers?  I  have  always  wanted  a 
mule  with  red  and  black  harness.  If  I  live  in  the  South 
again  they  shall  both  be  mine. 

And,  indeed,  if  I  were  young  enough  to  wait  on 
fortune,  I  would  cast  my  lot  upon  the  Mississippi  Delta 
with  its  wonderful  rich  black  soil,  where  whatever  is  put 
into  it  must  grow.  It  seems  marvellous  to  be  almost 
within  hail  of  a  large  city  like  New  Orleans,  and  to  see 
miles  and  miles  of  really  untouched  primeval  forest. 
Whenever  Mr.  Stone  takes  in  two  hundred  or  five 
hundred  acres,  or  prepares  the  land  for  lease  or  sale,  the 
trees  are  belted,  afterwards  burned  and  the  ground  is 
cleared.  It  is  only  five  years  since  bears  were  a  great 
nuisance  on  the  plantation.  I  have  always  known  they 
were  mischievous  creatures,  with  their  little  funny, 
twinkling  eyes  and  their  slily  smiling  faces  which 
show  a  keen  sense  of  humour.  From  some  distant 
point  of  vantage  they  must  have  watched  the  negroes 
planting  long,  straight  rows  of  cotton,  cunningly  waited 
for  the  tender  plants  to  come  up,  when  they  carefully 
straddled  across  each  row  and  unerringly  trampled 


306  My  Beloved  South 

down  every  single  shooting  green  leaf,  just  to  show 
what  can  be  done  by  a  frolicsome  bear  with  a  lack  of 
conscience. 

Now,  these  beasts  have  retreated  farther  back  into 
the  woods  leaving  their  vengeance  to  that  dreadful, 
tragic  pest,  the  boll-weevil.  But  the  Agricultural  De- 
partment is  on  his  track,  too ;  they  know  what  the  boll- 
weevil  thinks,  certainly  what  he  eats,  and  before  long 
they  are  sure  to  produce  an  epidemic  for  him  and  he 
will  be  exterminated.  Already  they  are  cleverly  chang- 
ing the  seasons  of  cotton  by  planting  the  seed  earlier 
and  later,  and  have  avoided  his  most  prolific  hour,  and 
sometimes  they  avoid  him  altogether.  And  though  at 
first  seeming  to  bring  bankrupt  disaster  in  his  wake  the 
boll- weevil  has  not  been  an  unmitigated  evil,  because  he 
has  proved  to  the  South  the  possibility  of  other  prod- 
ucts beside  cotton.  Never  have  I  seen  such  Jack-and- 
the-beanstalk  alfalfa  as  on  the  Dunleith  plantation,  and 
never  have  I  felt  so  exultant  over  the  future  of  my  own 
land,  for  nothing  convinces  like  success. 

Alfred  Stone  understands  the  negro,  is  the  embodi- 
ment of  reason  in  his  attitude  towards  him,  and  is  very 
hopeful  of  his  future  coupled  with  that  of  the  white 
man  in  the  South.  He  says:  "It  is  the  duty  of  every 
man  who  undertakes  to  study  the  race  problem  here, 
first  to  study  the  negro,  just  as  we  would  the  Chinese, 
the  Italian,  the  Russian,  or  the  Indian,  in  both  his  native 
and  adopted  homes,  and  without  the  bias,  prejudice,  or 
sentiment  which  in  this  country  have  for  three  quarters 
of  a  century  rendered  such  attempted  studies  almost 
worthless." 

If  the  study  of  the  negro  were  undertaken  and  care- 
fully carried  out  by  a  number  of  intelligent  men  in  the 
United  States,  and  stringent  laws  passed  for  his  moral 


A  Present-Day  Plantation  307 

and  physical  development,  what  a  benefit  it  would  be 
for  all  concerned.  At  the  present  time  a  race  of  vaga- 
bonds, shiftless,  idle,  and  lazy,  are  growing  up  without 
direction,  without  discipline,  without  purpose;  moving 
aimlessly  from  one  plantation  to  another,  seeking  vainly 
a  method  of  avoiding  work.  Any  one  interested  in  the 
negro  can  find  much  valuable  information  in  Alfred 
Stone's  The  American  Race  Problem.  His  mind  is 
naturally  contemplative,  just,  and  judicial.  He  was 
born  and  brought  up  in  the  South ;  and  having  for  years 
given  diligent  study  to  the  condition  of  the  negro,  and 
possessing  the  inestimable  advantage  of  practical 
experience,  his  success  has  proved  the  result  of  his 
theories. 

Now,  even  in  the  North,  the  negro  franchise  is 
acknowledged  as  having  been  a  bitter  mistake.  Many 
of  the  negroes  given  a  vote  possess  an  intelligence 
scarcely  above  that  of  an  observant  chimpanzee.  There 
is  a  story  told  of  a  field  hand  going  to  a  circus  and  saying 
to  a  very  big,  black  ape,  "Good  mawnin',  sah."  The 
ape  remained  silent.  "Why  don't  you  talk  to  me, 
mistah?"  the  darkey  said;  "you  looks  jes'  like  my  poor 
brer  John,  who  is  done  dead."  The  ape  blinked  sym- 
pathetically, but  made  no  reply.  Then  the  darkey's 
face  broke  into  a  smile,  and  he  said,  "You  sho'ly  is  wise, 
sah ;  'cause  ef  you  said  anything  de  white  folks  would  cut 
off  yo'  tail,  put  a  hoe  in  yo'  hand,  and  set  you  to  work 
plantin'  cotton." 

As  I  was  going  to  Dunleith  plantation  a  negro  passed 
down  the  car  and  he  was  enough  like  Mick,  a  friend  of 
mine  in  London,  to  have  been  his  brother.  A  good 
many  years  ago  I  went  one  afternoon  to  the  Zoo  with 
"the  Bloke  with  the  White  Teeth."  (This  was  the 
name  given  to  a  friend  from  California  who  had  helped 


308  My  Beloved  South 

to  wait  at  a  tea-party  for  some  of  my  little  slum  friends 
in  London  by  a  little  girl,  a  big-eyed,  silent  eater,  who 
had  made  but  one  remark — "Tell  the  Bloke  with  the 
White  Teeth  to  give  me  more  cake.")  A  cold,  yellow 
fog  obscured  the  sun  and  the  air  was  full  of  a  desperate 
chill.  One  of  the  keepers  who  knew  me  asked  if  we 
would  like  to  see  a  baby  chimpanzee.  He  said,  "He  is 
very  ill;  I  'm  afraid  he  has  pneumonia  and  is  going  to 
die.  He  has  only  been  in  the  Zoo  a  month,  and  is  just 
two  years  old."  We  went  into  a  little  room,  warmed 
to  a  tropical  degree  of  heat,  and  there,  lying  on  the 
bottom  of  his  cage,  with  a  bit  of  blanket  thrown  over 
him,  even  covering  his  head,  lay  the  poor  little  black  ape. 

As  the  door  was  opened  he  turned  down  the  blanket 
and  looked  at  me  with  an  expression  of  recognition 
in  his  one  exposed  eye.  The  keeper  said,  "It 's  about 
time  he  took  his  medicine;  I  '11  give  it  to  him."  As 
he  unlocked  the  door  and  opened  it,  the  poor  creature 
gave  one  bound  into  my  arms,  locked  his  feet  round  my 
waist,  laid  his  poor  hot  feverish  head  and  his  dribbling 
unclean  nose  on  my  fur  collar,  and  gave  a  chuckle  of 
satisfaction.  I  took  out  my  pocket-handkerchief,  and, 
while  drying  his  nose,  said  to  the  keeper,  "He  thinks  I 
am  his  mother.  Whether  I  look  like  his  mother  or  not 
I  don't  know,  but  evidently  in  his  eyes  I  do. " 

He  took  his  medicine  from  my  hand,  and  I  nursed 
him  for  quite  half-an-hour.  "The  Bloke  with  the 
White  Teeth"  said  he  did  n't  know  how  I  could  do  it. 
Mick  got  well,  and  until  he  grew  to  manhood  we  were 
the  most  devoted  friends. 

I  used  very  often  to  go  to  the  Zoo  to  see  him.  He  was 
always  delighted  at  my  coming,  sat  in  my  lap,  kissed 
me,  made  a  little  boutonniere  for  my  coat  out  of  the 
straw  of  his  cage,  and  really  tried  to  talk.  He  was 


A  Present-Day  Plantation  309 

always  charmingly  polite,  asking  me  to  stay  longer,  and 
never  failed  to  stretch  out  his  long  hands  to  catch 
hold  of  me  as  I  went  away.  The  keeper  said,  "You 
need  n't  be  ashamed,  madam,  of  Mick's  affection;  it 's 
honest.  Not  all  the  bananas  nor  all  the  nuts  in  London 
could  buy  one  smile  from  him.  He  don't  do  any  pre- 
tending, Mick  don't."  Mick  has  now  grown  into  a 
tall,  slender,  strong,  very  athletic  young  chimpanzee 
gentleman  of  sixteen ;  he  is  less  interesting  in  his  adoles- 
cence, and  is  shut  off  from  the  public  by  a  wide  plate  of 
glass,  so  that  after  all  our  years  of  friendship  we  are 
separated.  But  if  ever  I  saw  a  close  relation  of  Mick's 
it  was  the  negro  who  walked  through  the  car  the  day 
I  was  leaving  Dunleith. 

All  the  time  I  was  on  the  plantation  my  thoughts 
were  constantly  in  England,  for  I  knew  I  was  seeing  the 
possibilities  of  future  homes  for  young  Englishmen  with 
or  without  capital,  if  they  care  to  pitch  their  tents  in  the 
South.  As  Harris  Dickson  said  to  me,  "There  is  a 
close  sympathy  between  the  men  of  the  South  and 
Englishmen.  While  in  the  Sudan  I  found  their  point 
of  view  of  the  negro  and  his  management  identical  with 
our  own."  There  is  nothing  that  makes  so  much  for 
success  as  contentment,  and  friendliness,  and  our 
progress  has  not  been  so  rapid  as  to  do  away  with  our 
English  kinship. 

Then,  in  our  mild  climate,  only  a  very  small  capital  is 
necessary.  Fuel,  heavy  clothing,  stoutly  built  houses, 
the  expensive  necessities  of  the  North,  are  not  needed  in 
the  South,  and  with  ordinary  industry  and  intelligence 
a  man  can  always  make  his  living,  and  even  more. 
There  is  no  country  so  rich  in  all  the  world  as  that 
wonderful  Mississippi  Delta.  The  air  is  delightfully 
quiet  and  tranquillising  and  with  the  improvements  due 


310  My  Beloved  South 

to  science  it  is  quite  possible  to  live  with  health  the 
whole  year  on  a  plantation.  The  screens  now  uni- 
versally used  to  keep  out  the  flies  and  mosquitoes  have 
done  much  towards  establishing  a  sanitary  condition, 
and  bathrooms,  quantities  of  ice,  which  is  very  cheap, 
fresh  vegetables,  and  fine  fruits  all  make  life  not  only 
tolerable  but  pleasant  during  the  summer. 

A  young  Englishman  who  came  from  Yorkshire  to 
Alfred  Stone's  plantation  with  a  letter  of  introduction 
has  been  very  successful,  and  any  industrious  man 
would  have  the  same  chance.  Beginning  with  five 
hundred  pounds  capital,  he  could  rent  for  one  year  or  a 
term  of  years,  as  he  pleased,  forty  or  fifty  acres  of  land 
at  a  rental  varying  from  six  to  ten  dollars  an  acre, 
according  to  the  quality  of  the  land  and  the  improve- 
ments already  made  on  it.  If  he  takes  up  good  land 
and  pays  eight  dollars  an  acre  for  it,  the  rent  is  not  due 
until  the  fall  of  the  year,  when  he  gathers  his  crop,  so 
that  he  would  not  require  to  use  any  capital  for  that.  He 
could  easily  handle  this  land  with  two  good  mules,  which 
would  cost  five  hundred  dollars  cash.  Another  hundred 
would  more  than  cover  the  cost  of  his  tools,  planting 
seed,  and  small  expenses.  He  would  have  to  hire  a 
"hand,"  one  man,  to  help  him.  This  would  cost  him 
twenty  dollars  a  month,  or  say  two  hundred  and  forty 
dollars  for  the  year.  He  would  want  to  set  aside  ten 
acres  for  his  corn,  garden  patch,  stable,  etc.,  which 
would  leave  him  thirty  acres  for  his  cotton  crop.  With 
anything  like  a  normal  season,  he  should  make  three 
hundred  pounds  of  lint  per  acre.  This  would  be  nine 
thousand  pounds,  or  eighteen  bales  of  five  hundred 
pounds  each.  If  the  price  were  good  that  fall,  he  might 
easily  get  fifteen  cents  a  pound  for  his  cotton,  or  seventy- 
five  dollars  a  bale.  This  would  give  him  thirteen 


A  Present-Day  Plantation  311 

hundred  and  fifty  dollars  for  his  crop.  The  seed  from 
his  eighteen  bales  would  be  about  nine  tons,  worth, 
say,  fifteen  dollars  per  ton.  This  would  be  one  hundred 
and  thirty -five  dollars.  This  would  bring  his  total  crop 
proceeds  to  fourteen  hundred  and  eighty-five  dollars. 
He  would  have  planted  eight  acres  in  corn  and  should 
have  two  hundred  and  forty  bushels  as  his  crop. 

The  cash  outlay  on  his  crop  would  vary  with  prices. 
He  would,  however,  begin  with  no  corn  for  his  mules, 
and  their  feed  would  cost  him  about  one  hundred 
dollars.  This  would  be  more  than  ample,  and  indeed  it 
need  not  be  so  much.  He  might  allow  himself  fifty 
dollars  for  extra  help  at  a  time  when  he  and  his  one 
labourer  could  not  do  all  that  was  necessary.  The  cost 
of  hiring  labour  to  pick  one  bale  of  cotton  is  about 
eight  dollars,  but  he  and  his  helper  could  do  enough 
picking  themselves  to  reduce  the  amount  paid  out  to, 
say,  five  dollars  per  bale  or  ninety  dollars.  In  fact  it 
would,  or  should,  be  considerably  less.  If  he  has  been 
able  to  go  through  until  fall  without  a  waggon,  he  will 
certainly  need  one  in  gathering  his  corn  and  hauling  his 
cotton  to  the  gin.  This  would  cost  him  fifty  dollars, 
and  if  he  had  a  wife,  he  would  want  to  pay  fifty  dollars 
for  a  good  cow,  or  he  could  get  one  for  less.  He  might 
also  invest  fifty  dollars  in  hogs  and  chickens  as  a  starter. 
Ginning  his  cotton  would  not  cost  him  three  dollars  a 
bale,  but,  allowing  that,  the  cost  would  be  fifty-four 
dollars. 

The  above  items  would  total  twelve  hundred  and 
eighty-four  dollars.  His  crop  has  brought  fourteen 
hundred  and  eighty-five  dollars,  which  leaves  him  a 
balance  of  two  hundred  and  one  dollars,  with  his  mules, 
tools,  waggon,  cow,  hogs,  and  chickens  paid  for,  and  more 
than  enough  corn  on  hand  to  do  away  with  the  item  of 


312  My  Beloved  South 

mule  feed  next  year.  There  has  been  nothing  put  down 
for  household  and  living  expenses,  medical  attention, 
and  incidentals.  These  can  be  in  large  measure  just 
what  he  makes  them.  If  he  and  his  wife  have  health, 
with  chickens  and  a  garden  his  actual  cash  outlay  may 
be  small.  To  make  things  balance,  he  might  cover  it 
with  the  two  hundred  and  one  dollars  which  he  had 
left  above. 

I  see  that  I  have  omitted  the  rent,  so  to  make  things 
plain  it  is  better  to  begin  at  the  beginning: 

Two  mules $  500.00 

Feed  for  same 100 .  oo 

Waggon 50.00 

Tools 100.00 

Cow 50.00 

Hogs  and  chickens 50.00 

Incidentals 100 .  oo 


950.00 

Regular  and  extra  help 290 .  oo 

Extra  picking  in  the  fall 90 .  oo 

Ginning  cotton 54  •  oo 

Investment  and  operating  expenses $1,384 .  oo 

Rent,  40  acres  at  $8 .  oo  per  acre 320 .  oo 

Total $1,704.00 

Add  for  living  expenses  aside  from  vegetables 

and  chickens  raised  at  home 296 .  oo 


Total $2,000.  oo 

In  other  words,  he  could  defray  the  entire  cost  of 
equipping  himself,  making  his  crop,  living,  etc.,  out  of 


A  Present-Day  Plantation  313 

his  capital  of  $2500.00  and  still  have  $500.00  left 
plus  the  proceeds  of  his  crop,  which  I  have  put  at 
$1485.00. 

He  could  even  manage  with  only  one  thousand  dollars 
on  the  same  amount  of  land,  by  simply  using  his  capital 
for  equipment  and  getting  his  supplies  from  an  advanc- 
ing merchant  to  be  paid  for  out  of  his  crop  at  the  end 
of  the  season.  Of  course  all  such  figures  are  subject 
to  the  variations  incident  to  fluctuations  of  prices  of 
cotton  and  seed,  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  what  he  has  to 
buy  on  the  other,  but  this  will  give  a  fairly  good  idea, 
I  hope,  of  the  general  situation  and  its  possibilities. 

Much  information  has  been  given  to  me  by  a  man 
who  started  with  no  capital  at  all  and  has  made  his 
success  on  money  borrowed  at  a  rather  high  rate  of 
interest.  Very  good  land  is  to  be  had  at  from  thirty  to 
seventy  dollars  an  acre.  Newcomers  are  advised  by 
planters  of  experience  to  rent  land  rather  than  to  buy 
until  they  know  the  ropes.  The  Yazoo-Mississippi 
Delta  is  a  section  of  land  embracing  some  six  thousand 
square  miles  lying  between  the  Yazoo  and  the  Missis- 
sippi rivers,  and  extending  north  from  the  confluence  of 
those  streams  just  above  Vicksburg — and  although  I  am 
a  woman,  if  I  had  vigorous  health  I  would  pitch  my 
tent  on  the  Yazoo.  The  virgin  soil  is  as  black  as  tar; 
things  planted  there  grow  like  enchantment — alfalfa 
yields  six  crops  a  year. 

Corn  is  very  successfully  grown,  and  the  peanut 
industry  is  bringing  the  farmers  a  large  revenue. 
Peanuts  are  more  dependable  than  cotton  and  more 
remunerative.  The  yield  is  running  from  twenty  to 
fifty  bushels  an  acre,  and  in  many  instances  even  higher. 
The  price  paid  in  the  neighbourhood  by  the  mills  is 
from  eighty  cents  to  a  dollar  a  bushel.  Even  were  the 


3H  My  Beloved  South 

price  to  go  as  low  as  sixty  cents  a  bushel,  which  con- 
tingency might  arise  through  over-production,  it  would 
still  be  a  good  crop. 

The  peanut  is  a  wonderfully  grateful  product  to  raise; 
every  bit  of  it  can  be  used;  even  the  residue  or  cake  is 
ground  into  meal  which  is  said  to  be  superior  to  cotton- 
seed meal,  and  is  devoured  with  avidity  by  hogs  without 
the  injurious  effect  experienced  from  cotton-seed  meal. 
For  cooking,  dressings,  salads,  soaps,  and  compounds, 
peanut  oil  is  superior  to  cotton-seed  oil.  In  fact  a 
chemical  analysis  shows  very  nearly  the  same  properties 
in  peanut  oil  and  olive  oil.  The  peanut  hay  has  been 
found  to  be  a  valuable  feed  for  horses,  sheep,  and  cattle. 
The  crop  does  not  draw  heavily  on  the  fertility  of  the 
soil,  like  clover  and  other  greedy  collectors  of  nitrogen, 
carbonic  acid  gas,  etc.  The  rotted  plant  may  also  be 
used  as  a  fertiliser.  The  market  for  peanuts  is  a  large 
one,  not  confined  to  the  mills  making  oil  and  peanut 
butter,  for  candy  makers,  confectioners,  and  the  humble 
"corner  peanut  stand"  consume  large  quantities.  And 
brokers  are  kept  busy  supplying  the  ever-increasing 
demand.  After  passing  through  the  hands  of  the 
peanut  cleaner,  the  peanut  sheller,  the  peanut-butter 
manufacturer,  the  total  paid  out  for  peanuts  in  various 
forms  amounts  to  $35,000,000  annually.  A  practical 
plea  for  the  peanut  is  that  two  great  financiers  and  one 
leading  theatrical  manager  began  life  as  little  boys  by 
selling  paper  bags  of  peanuts.  And  the  Commissioner 
of  Agriculture  says  the  South  is  entering  upon  the 
greatest  era  of  prosperity  it  has  known  since  the  Civil 
War.  Now  is  the  time  to  buy  land  which  for  the 
moment  is  depreciated  by  the  boll- weevil,  for  in  another 
two  years  it  will  have  doubled  and  trebled  in  value. 

Douglas  Jerrold  said  there  were  three  kinds  of  liars, 


A  Present-Day  Plantation  315 

"Liars,  damned  liars,  and  statistics."  I  don't  believe 
much  in  statistics — truthful,  frank,  reliable  people  have 
quite  different  statistics — but  I  have  seen  the  South,  and 
I  left  it  full  of  wonder  and  enthusiasm. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MY    HERO 

O  stars  that  now  his  brothers  are, 
O  sun,  his  sire  in  truth  and  light, 
Go  tell  the  listening  worlds  afar 
Of  him  who  died  for  truth  and  right! 
For  martyr  of  all  martyrs  he 
Who  died  to  save  an  enemy. 

JOHN  TROTWOOD  MOORE. 

MY  hero  is  not  Napoleon,  nor  Nelson,  nor  Washing- 
ton, nor  Lee,  nor  even  that  great  and  good  man, 
Stonewall  Jackson,  whose  beautiful,  prophetic  words 
can  never  be  forgotten — "Order  A.  P.  Hill  to  prepare 
for  battle.  Tell  Major  Hawkes  to  advance  the  com- 
missary train.  Let  us  cross  the  river  and  rest  in  the 
shade.1'  He  was  only  a  private  in  the  Confederate 
army,  who  died  with  steadfast  eyes  and  a  rope  round  his 
neck. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  war,  in  1863,  General  Bragg 
was  in  command  at  Missionary  Ridge.  Before  he 
could  dispose  of  his  army  to  advantage  in  any  direction 
it  was  necessary  for  him  to  have  a  plan  of  the  Federal 
army  in  Tennessee.  Three  scouts  were  selected  who 
had  before  done  valuable  service,  and  they  were  in- 
formed by  General  Bragg  of  the  extreme  danger  of  the 
duty,  and  were  asked  if  they  were  willing  to  undertake 
it,  if  need  be,  to  the  tragic  end.  They  replied  they 

316 


My  Hero  317 

were.  He  noticed  a  young,  handsome,  eager  lad, 
listening  with  great  attention  to  his  orders.  When  he 
had  finished  speaking,  the  boy,  Sam  Davis,  came  up  to 
him  and  said,  "  General  Bragg,  I  should  very  much  like 
to  be  your  fourth  scout." 

"  Don't  you  think  you  are  rather  young  for  such  a 
dangerous  mission?"  General  Bragg  asked. 

The  boy  smiled  cheerfully  and  said,  "Well,  try 
me." 

The  next  day  the  four  scouts  started  off  together,  and 
Sam  Davis,  with  almost  miraculous  quickness,  obtained 
all  the  information  required.  He  found  out  that  the 
Federal  army  in  middle  Tennessee  was  likely  to  move 
from  Nashville  to  Corinth,  and  reinforce  the  army  at 
Chattanooga.  He  got  an  exact  account  of  the  number 
of  regiments  and  the  whole  of  the  artillery  in  the  i6th 
Corps,  and,  what  was  even  more  remarkable,  he  got 
complete  maps  of  the  fortifications  at  all  the  principal 
points,  including  Nashville,  and  an  accurate  report  of 
the  entire  Federal  army  in  the  whole  of  Tennessee. 

Sam  Davis  was  so  pleased  with  his  rapid  success 
that  he  wanted  the  praise  and  sympathy  of  the  person 
he  loved  best  in  the  world,  his  young  sweetheart,  to 
whom  he  was  engaged  to  be  married ;  and  he  recklessly 
stopped  to  visit  her.  A  small  company  of  Federal 
cavalry  saw  a  grey  uniform  enter  a  little  rose-covered 
house,  and  they  followed  him  as  he  came  out.  But 
their  horses  were  jaded  by  a  long  march,  while  Sam 
Davis  was  mounted  on  a  thoroughbred  Kentucky  mare, 
and  he  rushed  past  them  on  the  roads  he  knew  so  well, 
making  a  detour,  and  they  lost  him  in  the  sheltering 
darkness. 

The  Seventh  Kansas  Cavalry,  however,  were  scattered 
over  his  entire  course,  and  while  he  was  resting  the  next 


3i 8  My  Beloved  South 

day  in  a  scrub  thicket  at  Pulaski,  trying  to  conceal 
himself,  a  squad  of  soldiers  belonging  to  the  Seventh 
Cavalry  discovered  his  hiding-place  and  captured  him 
and  his  horse.  They  proceeded  to  take  him  to  General 
Dodge,  who  was  in  command  at  Pulaski,  only  a  mile 
and  a  half  distant.  When  the  frank,  handsome,  fear- 
less, gay-spirited  lad,  in  his  shabby  grey  uniform,  stood 
before  the  General,  he  was  immediately  prepossessed 
in  his  favour.  At  that  moment  there  was  no  evidence 
against  him,  but  when  they  unbuckled  Davis's  saddle 
a  fat  budget  of  papers  was  d  scovered  under  the  seat, 
and  upon  examination,  General  Dodge  found  that  all 
the  information  given,  the  number  of  regiments,  the 
movements  of  the  artillery  in  the  i6th  Corps,  the 
reinforcements  from  Nashville  to  Corinth,  and  to 
Chattanooga,  the  fortifications  at  Nashville,  the  fine 
maps,  and  the  perfectly  accurate  report  of  the  whole 
Federal  army  in  Tennessee,  had  been  furnished  Davis 
by  a  member  of  his  own  staff,  and  that  probably  the 
man  who  stood  at  his  right  hand  was  a  traitor  of  the 
deepest  dye.  A  captured  map  was  a  copy  of  the  very 
one  he  carried  in  his  pocket. 

He  said,  "Davis,  you  evidently  have  a  good  friend 
at  court?"  Davis  made  no  reply.  "I  could  have 
sworn  to  trust  my  life  to  every  officer  at  my  table, 
but  the  information  which  you  have,  could  only  have 
been  given  you  by  a  friend.  Young  man,  I  must  have 
the  name  of  your  informer."  Davis  was  still  silent, 
with,  as  General  Dodge  could  see,  a  steadfast  gleam  of 
danger  in  his  eye.  There  was  no  weakening  there. 
And,  at  all  costs,  it  was  necessary  to  have  the  name 
of  the  traitor.  "You  will,"  he  said,  "without  any 
court-martial  have  your  freedom  the  moment  you 
speak  or  write  down  the  name  of  the  man  who  has 


My  Hero  319 

betrayed  me."  And  he  handed  Davis  a  pencil  and  a 
sheet  of  paper.  "Write  it,"  he  said,  "if  you  cannot 
speak  it. " 

Davis  gave  back  a  clean  sheet  of  paper  and  the  pencil 
to  General  Dodge,  and  for  the  first  time  spoke,  in  a 
quiet,  even  voice.  "General  Dodge,"  he  replied, 
"when  I  undertook  this  duty  from  my  commanding 
officer,  General  Bragg,  I  did  it  with  a  full  knowledge  of 
what  the  consequences  might  be.  I  cannot  give  you 
the  information  you  want. " 

The  General  said,  "You  are  very  young.  Life  must 
hold  a  good  deal  for  you.  Think  over  the  situation  for 
five  minutes  and  speak  again.  I  positively  must  have 
the  information  I  am  asking  from  you." 

Davis  answered  without  hesitation,  "Honour  re- 
quires no  thought;  it  comes  from" — he  lifted  his  hand 
and  pointed  upward — "  God.  I  can  only  repeat  that  I 
cannot  give  the  information." 

General  Dodge  said,  "  If  you  persist  in  this  silence  you 
know,  of  course,  that,  as  a  soldier,  I  must  call  a  court- 
martial,  and  then  the  matter  passes  out  of  my  hands." 

"I  know  that,"  Davis  replied.  "I  am  a  soldier 
myself;  I  don't  criticise  military  methods.  Call  your 
court-martial. " 

General  Dodge  said,  "It  is  with  extreme  regret  that 
I  am  forced  to  such  a  measure.  I  am  giving  you  your 
chance  now;  it  won't  be  repeated  later. " 

"  A  court-martial  will  give  me  a  death  sentence,"  said 
Davis,  "but  not  even  death  will  make  me  betray  my 
word.  We  are  both  soldiers  doing  our  duty.  When 
the  last  moment  of  my  life  comes,  I  shall  have  acted 
fair  to  God  and  to  myself. " 

By  this  time  the  young  soldier's  spotless  honour  and 
unassailable  loyalty  had  deeply  moved  General  Dodge, 


320  My  Beloved  South 

and  he  began  to  plead  with  genuine  emotion  to  the  boy 
to  be  saved.  But  Davis,  his  young  face  set  in  noble 
lines,  said,  "  General  Dodge,  I  have  never  lied  or  broken 
my  word  in  my  life ;  I  will  willingly  die  now  rather  than 
do  it.  My  mind  is  firmly  made  up.  A  court-martial 
may  condemn  me,  but  do  not  expect  me  to  betray  my 
trust.  I  will  never  do  it,  never." 

A  court-martial  was  then  called.  General  Dodge  was 
filled  with  regret,  thinking  that  the  very  man  who 
furnished  Davis  with  the  information  was  probably  at 
that  moment  giving  him  his  death  sentence.  It  seemed 
too  horrible.  The  execution  was  delayed  while  en- 
quiries were  made  about  Davis  and  his  family.  It  was 
found  that  an  old  friend  of  his  mother  was  living  in 
Pulaski.  General  Dodge  sent  for  her  and  said  to  her, 
"Talk  to  the  boy  about  his  home  and  about  his  mother. 
He  looks  to  me,  with  all  his  courage  and  his  steadfast- 
ness, a  sort  of  mother's  boy.  Surely  at  twenty  he  is  not 
going  to  sacrifice  his  life  to  save  a  traitor.  I  don't  know 
who  the  man  is  who  gave  him  the  information,  but  he 
is  n't  worth  the  death  of  Sam  Davis. " 

The  lady  used  all  her  eloquence;  she  repeated  what 
General  Dodge  had  said;  she  spoke  of  his  mother's  de- 
votion to  him,  of  her  love,  and  of  the  close  bond  that 
existed  between  them,  and  she  asked  if  he  realised  that 
he  was  never  to  see  her  again  and  of  the  great  grief 
he  was  to  give  her. 

"  Why, "  said  the  young  man,  crying  like  a  little  child, 
"my  mother  is  the  person  who  taught  me  never  to  lie 
and  to  keep  my  word.  She  will  grieve,  I  know,  not  to 
see  me  again,  but  I  will  never  betray  the  man  who  gave 
me  the  information,  and  he  knows  it.  It  is  n't  only  the 
other  man  I  am  saving.  How  could  I  live  through  all 
the  years  and  despise  the  man  I  have  to  live  with, 


My  Hero  321 

Myself?  How  could  I  wake  through  the  nights  and 
remember  the  man  I  lied  to  and  condemned?  No,  I 
will  die  with  honour;  I  will  never  live  dishonoured. 
God  knows  I  will  not." 

The  lady  returned  to  General  Dodge  and  repeated 
her  conversation,  and  they  both  wrung  their  hands 
with  helplessness. 

On  Friday,  Davis  was  handcuffed,  and  he  walked 
steadily  and  sat  down  on  his  coffin  with  the  fresh-faced 
look  of  a  boy  who  has  slept  well  and  is  the  possessor  of  a 
glorious  conscience. 

General  Dodge  had  passed  a  sleepless  night  and  was 
awake  long  before  the  condemned  man.  He  called  his 
staff  together  and  ordered  them  to  the  place  of  execu- 
tion, hoping  that  even  at  the  last  moment  Davis  would 
speak,  or  the  man  who  had  furnished  Davis  with  his 
information  would  be  touched  by  the  boy's  great  valour, 
and  that  he  might  still  be  saved. 

A  rope  was  placed  around  his  neck  by  hesitating 
hands;  the  lines  of  quiet  determination  in  the  exalted 
face  deepened.  There  stood  the  martyr  of  all  ages. 

"Wait!"  The  voice  of  General  Dodge  rang  out  like 
a  pistol  shot.  "  Davis,  in  the  name  of  God,  give  me  the 
name  of  your  informant!  Your  horse  is  waiting  for 
you.  Look,  she  is  there  in  the  thicket,  and  here  is  your 
escort  to  carry  you  back  to  your  own  lines  in  safety. 
One  word,  and  you  are  a  free  man. " 

Davis  turned  his  young  head,  and  looked  longingly 
at  the  horse.  "Queenie,  old  girl,"  he  called;  the  mare 
whinnied,  the  boy's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Then  he 
smiled  and  with  his  handcuffed  hands  gently  touched  the 
rope  around  his  neck  and  said:  "General  Dodge,  this  is 
my  badge  of  freedom.  I  have  only  one  life,  and  I  give 
it  for  honour.  Take  it." 


322  My  Beloved  South 

There  he  stood,  tall,  brave,  healthy,  strong,  handsome, 
intelligent,  unflinching,  ready  to  die  rather  than  betray 
his  word.  Officers  and  men  were  by  this  time  quietly 
and  unashamedly  weeping.  The  only  calm  and  stead- 
fast soul  was  his.  The  boy  gave  some  little  keepsakes 
to  the  Provost  Marshal  for  his  mother  and  his  sweet- 
heart. Then  he  turned  his  young  face  squarely  towards 
the  sun,  looked  at  it  like  a  young  eagle,  and  waited. 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  No  man  could  speak. 
Presently  a  quiet,  steady  voice  said,  "Do  your  duty, 
men."  Davis  had  himself  bravely  given  the  order. 
And  his  soul  went  home  to  God. 

When  John  Trotwood  Moore  wrote  his  touching 
version  of  the  story  the  end  was  not  known,  but  years 
afterwards  a  dandified  negro  spoke,  and  said  he  had 
been  a  trusted  servant  in  the  camp  of  General  Dodge. 
He  was  quick-witted,  alert,  and  it  was  easy  for  him  to 
get  all  the  information  that  Davis  wanted.  They  had 
played  together  as  boys,  and  he  liked  Davis  and  served 
him  willingly,  and  he,  who  had  received  many  a  sound 
thrashing  from  his  young  playmate,  knew  that  no  power 
on  earth  would  make  Davis  betray  him. 

It  is  said  that  he  saw  Davis  for  one  moment  after 
the  court-martial  and  asked,  "Well,  Marse  Sam,  who  's 
it  gwine  to  be?"  And  Davis  gave  him  his  hand  and 
answered,  smiling,  "Me,  Tom;  who  did  you  think  it 
was  going  to  be?"  The  negro  whimpered  and  said, 
"  Dat  's  what  I  thought.  But  you  know  you  made  me 
do  it,  Marse  Sam,  and  I  gets  mighty  skeered  some- 
times. I  don't  want  to  die."  Davis  said,  "Don't 
you  worry,  death  won't  come  to  you  through  me. " 

So  the  white  man,  the  white  Southern  man,  the  young 
Confederate  soldier,  fighting  against  the  cause  of  the 
negro,  gave  his  life  to  save  him,  and  yet  the  politicians 


My  Hero  323 

of  the  country  continually  make  capital  out  of  the 
problem  of  the  negro  in  the  South.  The  problem  was 
solved  on  the  day  Sam  Davis,  with  a  soul  as  pure  as  a 
flame,  died  for  a  negro  rather  than  betray  him.  Carlyle 
was  right  when  he  said  that  loyalty  is  the  greatest 
attribute  of  the  human  race.  Loyalty  to  a  cause,  to  a 
friend,  is  fine,  but  loyalty  to  a  foe  is  God-like.  There 
are  no  people  anywhere  who  have  so  much  understand- 
ing, so  much  tenderness,  and  such  a  divine  patience 
towards  the  negro  as  the  Southern  people. 

I  am  quite  sure  that  when  they  come  to  die  and  appear 
at  the  gate  of  heaven  they  have  only  to  say  to  St.  Peter, 
"I  come  from  South  Carolina"  (or  from  Mississippi,  or 
Louisiana,  or  any  of  the  Southern  States),  and  the  doors 
of  heaven  will  be  thrown  wide  open,  and  in  they  will 
walk  as  a  reward  for  the  great  trials  which  the  negro 
has  inflicted  upon  them  and  which  they  have  borne  with 
laughing,  Christian,  enduring  fortitude. 

It  was  the  great  President  Lincoln  who  said,  "I  am 
not  and  never  have  been  in  favour  of  bringing  about  in 
any  form  the  social  and  political  equality  of  the  black 
and  white  races.  There  is  a  physical  difference  which 
prevents  them  from  living  together  on  terms  of  social 
and  political  equality,  and  inasmuch  as  they  cannot  so 
live,  while  they  do  remain  together  there  must  be  a 
position  of  superior  and  inferior,  and  I,  as  much  as 
any  other  man,  am  in  favour  of  having  the  superior 
position  assigned  to  the  whites." 

What  good  things  President  Lincoln  said,  both  grave 
and  gay !  Some  one  was  praising  a  man  to  him,  and  his 
comment  was,  "A  good  fellow,  possibly,  but  sadly 
interruptious. " 

William  Archer,  a  man  of  cultivation,  with  a  just 
and  fair  mind,  has  said  in  his  interesting  book,  Through 


324  My  Beloved  South 

Afro-America:  "What  I  think  about  the  colour  question 
must  be  superficial,  and  may  be  foolish,  but  there  is  a 
certain  evidential  value  in  what  I  feel."  The  sub- 
conscious man  in  the  white  man  rises  up  in  revolt  at  a 
too  close  contact  with  the  negro.  The  white  race  is  un- 
doubtedly superior  to  the  black  race.  It  is  not  a  ques- 
tion of  argument.  It  is  a  matter  of  instinct  in  both  races. 

There  are  assuredly  people  in  the  world,  even  nations, 
who  are  born  to  be  dominated.  God  has  given  to  cer- 
tain men  the  qualities  of  leaders,  and  because  the  negro 
is  inferior  to  the  white  man  that  does  not  lessen  either 
his  usefulness  or  his  power  for  inspiring  affection  in  the 
man  above  him.  Nor  does  it  lessen  the  necessity  of  the 
Southern  people  for  the  labour  of  the  negro.  White 
men  can  never  work  in  rice  fields;  they  cannot  labour 
with  impunity  in  the  cotton  fields;  they  cannot  plant 
and  cut  sugar-cane.  They  have  tried  white  roustabouts 
on  the  Mississippi  steamboats,  and  it  has  been  a  failure ; 
they  have  been  obliged  to  employ  black  labour  again. 
When  the  negro  realises  his  limitations  and  accepts 
them,  and  the  white  man  develops  him  as  far  as  his 
capacity  permits  and  insists  upon  all  laws  for  his  good 
being  strictly  enforced,  and  when  the  politicians  find 
another  shibboleth  than  the  negro  in  the  South;  then 
there  will  be  a  natural  and  humane  solution  of  the  race 
problem. 

When  my  grandfather  was  Governor  of  Florida,  the 
President,  for  the  purpose  of  civilising  the  Indians,  sent 
down  a  mandate  from  Washington  that  schools  should 
be  built  for  their  education.  The  chiefs  gathered  to- 
gether and  held  a  solemn  conclave.  Then  Neamathla 
sent  for  the  Governor  and  said,  "My  good  brother,  we 
have  a  message  to  send  to  the  Great  Father  in  Wash- 
ington. He  knows  a  great  deal,  but  perhaps  he  does  n't 


My  Hero  325 

know  this,  that  Indians  and  books  are  far  apart ;  the  Great 
Spirit  never  intended  one  for  the  other.  You  see,"  he 
went  on  to  explain,  "when  the  Great  Spirit  first  made 
man  he  was  black.  He  did  n't  like  him  at  all,  and  said 
to  himself,  'A  very  bad  bit  of  work  on  my  part;  I  must 
try  my  hand  again.'  He  did,  and  the  next  venture 
was  a  red  man.  The  Great  Spirit  liked  him  a  good  deal 
better,  but  still  he  said,  'There  is  nothing  like  try,  try 
again.'  He  then  made  the  white  man.  He  was  tall 
and  fair  with  blue  eyes.  And  the  Great  Spirit  was  at 
last  quite  satisfied  with  his  work.  The  white  man  is 
the  youngest  of  the  three  brothers,  and  yet,  he  can 
always  govern. 

"Then  the  Great  Spirit  said,  'Now  I  am  going  to 
find  out  what  these  three  men  want.'  And  he  made 
books,  and  maps,  and  charts,  and  bows  and  arrows,  and 
tomahawks,  and  long  knives,  and  spades  and  hoes,  and 
he  called,  'White  man,  come  here  and  make  your 
choice.'  The  white  man  looked  long  and  earnestly  at 
the  bows  and  arrows,  for  he,  too,  likes  hunting,  while  the 
red  man,  knowing  exactly  what  he  wanted,  stood  by 
with  his  heart  fluttering  like  a  bird.  After  a  while  the 
white  man,  not  even  looking  in  the  direction  of  the 
hoes  and  spades,  gathered  together  the  books  and  maps 
and  charts  and  slowly  walked  away.  Then  the  Indian, 
darting  down  like  a  hawk  on  lesser  prey,  seized  the 
bows  and  arrows  and  rushed  off  to  the  woods.  And 
there  was  nothing  left  for  the  poor  black  man  but  the 
hoe  and  the  spade.  You  see,  my  young  white  brother, 
the  Great  Spirit  knows  his  work  best,  and  what  his 
people  want."  And  the  Indians,  acting  on  the  moral  of 
this  fable,  refused  absolutely  to  go  to  school. 

Delve  deep  enough  into  any  folk-lore,  and  sound 
philosophical  truth  will  be  discovered  under  its  charm- 


326  My  Beloved  South 

ing  fantasies.  The  white  man,  the  Anglo-Saxon  in 
particular,  is  undoubtedly  made  to  govern.  He  has 
done  it  admirably  in  all  countries,  but  whether  admir- 
ably or  not,  he  has  done  it  and  will  continue  to  do 
it.  Whatever  land  has  come  under  England's  rule 
has  progressed  and  prospered.  Curiously  enough,  no 
people  more  generously  acknowledge  this  fact  (when 
not  applied  to  themselves)  than  the  Irish.  The 
soldiers  who  fought  with  the  most  desperate  courage  in 
the  Boer  War  were  Irishmen,  shouting  with  their  last 
breath,  "Long  live  the  Queen!"  although  only  a  few 
weeks  before  these  very  men  had  sailed  from  Dublin 
and  thrown  their  bayonets  into  the  Liffey  with  cries  of 
"Long  live  Kruger!"  Something  must  be  allowed  for 
temperament,  but  given  a  new  environment  and  quick 
assimilation  of  the  Irish  with  other  peoples,  there  are  no 
better  rulers  in  the  world.  This  is  proved  by  the  long 
roll  of  distinguished  and  honoured  names  in  those 
dominions  where  the  sun  never  sets. 

Booker  Washington,  who  has  done  such  excellent 
work  for  the  negro,  tells  a  story  of  which  even  he  does 
not  see  the  true  significance:  "A  negro  preacher  was 
late  for  a  train.  He  stopped  and  said  to  a  white  hack 
driver, '  Will  you  drive  me  to  the  depot?'  '  No, '  said  the 
white  man,  'I  can't  afford  to  be  seen  driving  a  negro 
through  town.'  The  negro  said,  'All  right,  can  you  be 
seen  with  a  negro  driving  you  through  town ?  If  you  can, 
just  you  get  into  the  back  seat,  and  I  will  drive  the  hack 
to  the  depot  and  pay  you  my  fare  as  well.' "  And  he  did. 

Booker  Washington  adds,  "The  main  thing  is  that 
both  got  to  the  depot."  That,  however,  is  not  the 
main  thing ;  it  is  that  even  in  this  little  matter  the  white 
man  took  the  lead  over  the  black  one,  for  the  white 
race  will  always  dominate. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT'S  RESPONSIBILITY  FOR  THE  CIVIL  WAR 

Call  it  not  vain; — they  do  not  err 
Who  say  that,  when  the  Poet  dies, 
Mute  Nature  mourns  her  worshipper 
And  celebrates  his  obsequies: 

That  mountains  weep  in  crystal  rill; 
That  flowers  in  tears  of  balm  distil; 
Through  his  loved  groves  that  breezes  sigh, 
And  oaks,  in  deeper  groan,  reply: 
That  rivers  teach  their  rushing  wave 
To  murmur  dirges  round  his  grave. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

A  FRIEND  in  New  Orleans  asked  me,  "Betty, 
what  has  pleased  you  most  in  America?" 
"That,"  I  said,  "is  a  big  question.  So  many  things 
have  pleased  me — the  faithfulness  of  my  old  friends ;  the 
generous  hospitality  of  my  new  ones;  the  brilliant  blue 
skies;  the  scent  of  the  familiar  flowers.  And,  then,  I 
am  not  altogether  displeased  with  myself — when  I  see 
how  quickly  I  have  fallen  into  the  patient  ways  of  the 
South,  I  know  that  my  very  being  is  rooted  here.  For 
instance,  I  engage  a  negro  seamstress  to  come  on 
Monday  for  two  days'  mending.  She  turns  up  on 
Thursday,  having  highly  inconvenienced  me.  I  wel- 
come her  with  a  smile  and  listen  sweetly  to  her  absurd, 
mendacious  excuses.  I  engage  a  woman  to  wash  my 

327 


328  My  Beloved  South 

hair  on  Tuesday.  She  turns  up  on  Friday.  I  make  no 
reproaches,  but  sit  down,  thankful  to  have  her  arrive  at 
all.  I  make  my  washerwoman  swear  to  bring  me  a 
white  dress  on  Thursday  evening.  I  say,  'You  know, 
Emily,  I  'm  not  like  people  living  in  America,  I  have  n't 
many  washing  clothes,  and  only  one  white  dress,  and  I 
really  and  truly  need  it.  You  won't  disappoint  me,  will 
you?'  'No,  indeed,  Miss  Betty,  I  won't,  I  '11  suttenly 
bring  you  dat  dress  Thursday,  maybe  Wednesday  night ; 
't  ain't  much  to  wash.'  The  following  Monday  comes 
before  she  brings  my  dress — and  I  am  quite  amiable.  I 
only  say,  'Emily,  how  could  you  have  disappointed  me 
so?'  And  she  says,  'I  couldn't  help  it,  the  weather's 
bin  so  hot  dat  I  des  could  n't  git  here. '  And  I  have 
seen  so  quickly  how  useless  complaint  is.  You  simply 
must  exercise  patience  and  philosophy.  It  would  be 
like  getting  into  a  rage  with  an  irresponsible  child  to 
quarrel  with  a  present-day  darkey,  and  yet  how  terrible 
it  is  not  to  have  the  slightest  authority  over  these 
foolish  grown-up  black  children !  In  the  cotton  South, 
where  negroes  can  make  enough  money  picking  cotton 
in  the  summer  to  exist  in  idleness  in  the  winter,  no 
servant  will  sleep  in  the  house  at  night,  and  every 
housekeeper  wakes  up  with  an  anxious  heart  in  the 
morning.  If  she  hears  the  kitchen  fire  being  raked  out 
she  gives  a  little  sigh  of  relief,  for  she  knows  that,  with 
the  slightest  excuse,  or  no  excuse  at  all,  both  the  cook 
and  the  housemaid  will  stay  at  home  if  they  feel  dis- 
inclined to  work. 

Mary  Clark's  cook  in  Washington  told  her  she  was 
going  to  the  hospital  for  an  operation  and  would  be 
gone  for  two  or  three  weeks.  Mary  was  all  sympathy 
and  help.  What  the  woman  did  was  to  take  a  place 
with  one  of  Mary's  friends  to  find  out  whether  she  liked 


Walter  Scott  and  the  Civil  War      329 

the  place,  but  as  she  didn't  she  returned  in  a  week, 
saying  the  doctor  could  n't  find  her  appendix.  Every 
Southern  woman  now  has  to  know  how  to  build  a  fire 
and  cook  and  clean  a  house,  and  nurse,  and  sew,  and 
above  all  she  learns  quick  resource  and  cheerful  philo- 
sophy. A  race  of  Old  Reliables,  or  Young  Reliables, 
are  developing  a  wonderful  power  of  endurance,  for- 
bearance, and  fortitude  in  the  South.  Harris  Dickson's 
"Busy  Day"  speaks  more  eloquently  than  many  politi- 
cal tracts  of  the  trials  and  long-suffering  of  Southerners; 
and  though  he  has,  with  gifted  pen,  rendered  the  negroes 
into  humorous  photographs,  they  are  none  the  less  sore 
trials  and  ceaseless  aggravations. 

We  all  have  our  limitations,  our  prejudices,  our 
opinions,  which  are  occasionally  founded  upon  simple 
instincts,  regardless  of  facts;  but  it  is  a  question  whether 
these  opinions  are  of  sure  value.  There  are  also  those 
clever,  twisted,  contrary  intellects,  with  a  point  of 
view  so  foreign  to  their  own  country  that  they  seem  to 
belong  to  another  nationality. 

Mark  Twain  said  of  himself  that  he  was  a  "de- 
Southernised  Southerner."  Certainly  he  had  little 
sympathy  or  taste  for  the  South,  and  nowhere  does  he 
show  it  more  prominently  than  in  his  assertion  that 
Sir  Walter  Scott  was  in  a  great  measure  responsible  for 
the  Civil  War. 

Then  [he  says]  comes  Sir  Walter  Scott  with  his  enchant- 
ments, and  by  his  single  might  checks  this  wave  of  progress 
and  even  turns  it  back;  sets  the  world  in  love  with  dreams 
and  phantoms ;  with  decayed  and  swinish  forms  of  religion ; 
with  decayed  and  degraded  systems  of  government;  with 
the  sillinesses  and  emptinesses,  sham  grandeurs,  sham  gauds, 
and  sham  chivalries  of  a  brainless  and  worthless  long- 
vanished  society.  He  did  measureless  harm ;  more  real  and 


330  My  Beloved  South 

lasting  harm,  perhaps,  than  any  other  individual  that  ever 
wrote. 

Most  of  the  world  has  now  outlived  a  good  part  of  these 
harms,  though  by  no  means  all  of  them;  but  in  our  South 
they  flourish  pretty  forcefully  still.  Not  so  forcefully  as 
half  a  generation  ago,  perhaps,  but  still  forcefully.  There, 
the  genuine  and  wholesome  civilisation  of  the  nineteenth 
century  is  curiously  confused  and  commingled  with  the 
Walter  Scott  Middle  Age  sham  civilisation,  and  so  you  have 
practical  common  sense,  progressive  ideas,  and  progressive 
works  mixed  up  with  the  duel,  the  inflated  speech,  the 
jejune  romanticism  of  an  absurd  past  that  is  dead,  and  out 
of  charity  ought  to  be  buried.  But  for  the  Sir  Walter  Scott 
disease,  the  character  of  the  Southerner — or  Southron,  ac- 
cording to  Sir  Walter's  starchier  way  of  putting  it — would  be 
wholly  modern,  in  place  of  modern  and  mediaeval  mixed,  and 
the  South  would  be  fully  a  generation  further  on  than  it  is. 

"  It  was  Sir  Walter  that  made  every  gentleman  in  the 
South  a  major,  or  a  general,  or  a  colonel,  or  a  judge  before 
the  war;  and  it  was  he  also  that  made  these  gentlemen 
value  these  bogus  decorations.  For  it  was  he  that  created 
rank  and  caste  down  there,  and  also  reverence  for  rank  and 
caste,  and  pride  and  pleasure  in  them.  Enough  is  laid 
on  slavery,  without  fathering  upon  it  these  creations  and 
contributions  of  Sir  Walter. 

"  Sir  Walter  had  so  large  a  hand  in  making  Southern 
character  as  it  existed  before  the  war,  that  he  is  in  great 
measure  responsible  for  the  war.  It  seems  a  little  harsh 
towards  a  dead  man  to  say  that  we  never  should  have 
had  a  war  but  for  Sir  Walter;  and  yet  something  of  a  plaus- 
ible argument  might,  perhaps,  be  made  in  support  of  the 
wild  proposition.  The  Southerner  of  the  American  Revolu- 
tion owned  slaves,  so  did  the  Southerner  of  the  American 
Civil  War;  but  the  former  resembles  the  latter  as  an 
Englishman  resembles  a  Frenchman.  The  change  of 
character  can  be  traced  rather  more  easily  to  Sir  Walter's 
influence  than  to  that  of  any  living  thing  or  person." 


Walter  Scott  and  the  Civil  War      331 

Unfortunately,  in  this  assertion  Mark  Twain  can  be 
bolstered  up  by  evidence,  for  nowhere  in  the  world  was 
Sir  Walter  Scott  so  much  loved  or  so  widely  read  as  in 
the  South.  M.  Jules  d'Avezac,  an  emigre  from  San 
Domingo,  translated  Marmion  into  French  and  sent  it 
to  Sir  Walter,  who  replied  with  a  letter  saying  how 
pleased  he  was  that  the  Muse  had  repeated  his  verses  in 
another  hemisphere.  There  are  Southern  men, — and 
my  dear  father  was  one, — and  there  are  certainly  South- 
ern women,  who  know  every  novel  and  every  scene  in 
the  novels  of  all  the  twenty-seven  which  Sir  Walter  has 
written.  Mark  Twain  said  he  did  measureless  harm, 
more  real  and  lasting  harm,  than  any  other  individual 
who  ever  wrote.  But  what  did  he  teach?  Loyalty  and 
self-sacrifice,  a  sense  of  obligation  to  your  kinsfolk, 
chivalry,  tenderness,  and  protection  to  women,  honour 
and  truth  to  your  neighbour,  courage  and  valour  in 
battle,  open-handed  hospitality,  and  a  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility towards  those  dependent  on  you.  Is  n't 
that  just  as  good  teaching  as  "practical  common  sense, 
progressive  ideas,  and  progressive  works"? 

There  is  no  place  where  brutality  is  exhibited  with 
such  pride,  or  where  the  manners  of  the  lower  classes 
are  so  detestable,  or  where  there  is  so  much  friction  to  a 
person  of  refinement,  as  New  York — our  greatest  city  of 
"progressive  ideas  and  progressive  works. "  And  there 
is  not  the  smallest  consolation  to  an  American  in  the 
suggestion  that  the  brutality,  vulgarity,  and  bad  man- 
ners are  imported  with  our  bonnets  and  dresses  from 
various  ports,  for  it  is  more  difficult  to  endure  the 
insolence  of  aliens  than  that  of  your  own  people. 

Even  Sir  Walter  Scott,  with  all  his  genius,  could  not 
impose  one  dream  or  vision  upon  the  stony  soul  of  New 
York.  And  what  would  life  be  worth  to  some  of  us 


332  My  Beloved  South 

without  dreams  and  visions?  There  are  other  things 
besides  progress  and  "practical  common  sense."  I 
doubt  if  Shakespeare  had  the  latter.  There  are  no 
traces  of  it  in  Romeo  and  Juliet  or  A  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,  and  yet  he  is  immortal.  Carlyle  said, 
"The  problem  of  politics  is,  how  out  of  a  multitude  of 
knaves  to  make  an  honest  people."  New  York,  in  the 
midst  of  its  splendid  progress,  can  be  left  to  solve  this 
problem. 

Mark  Twain  complains  of  the  "Sir  Walter  Scott 
Middle  Age  sham  civilisation,"  yet  under  that  "sham 
civilisation"  before  the  war  the  South  created  politi- 
cians who  were  gentlemen  of  property,  distinction,  and 
honour.  They  did  not  put  their  hands  into  the  pockets 
of  the  government  and  withdraw  them  contaminated 
with  "graft, "  as  so  many  of  the  politicians  of  the  North 
have  done  since  the  war.  Their  ideas  were  not  pro- 
gressive enough  for  the  worship  of  money;  they  still 
believed  in  honesty,  truth,  straightforwardness,  and,  if 
it  need  be,  self-sacrifice  and  poverty.  What  statesman 
was  it  who  said,  "The  Southern  statesman  went  for 
honours  and  the  Northern  one  for  profit"? 

The  trusts,  that  have  done  such  infinite  harm  in 
America,  did  not  originate  in  the  South.  The  high 
tariff  that  is  impeding  the  universal  progress  of  the 
United  States  has  been  established  by  Northern  men. 
The  enormous  fortunes  which  are  a  menace  and  danger 
to  the  country  have  been  amassed  by  Northern  men. 
Slavery  had  its  drawbacks,  for  anything  that  gives  men 
unlimited  power  is  wrong;  but  it  had  its  advantages  in 
that  it  established  a  sense  of  responsibility  in  the  masters 
towards  the  individuals  and  that  sense  of  responsibility 
extended  itself  to  the  State.  Southern  men  had,  and 
still  have,  very  great  civic  pride.  Like  the  English, 


Walter  Scott  and  the  Civil  War      333 

they  have  taken  root  in  the  soil  and  love  of  country  is 
with  them  instinctive.  As  for  the  "romanticism  of  an 
absurd  past  that  is  dead, "  who  have  a  better  right  to 
a  romantic  past  than  we  of  the  South?  And  Mark 
Twain  is  wrong  in  imagining  that  for  us  it  can  ever  die. 
It  is  indeed  history's  most  thrilling  page,  and  "Once 
upon  a  time"  would  be  the  fit  prelude  for  the  most 
commonplace  story  that  could  be  told  of  our  beloved 
South.  Its  beginnings  run  like  a  fairy  tale,  whispered 
in  breathless  morsels,  for  the  shuddering  delight  of 
children.  The  quest  of  glittering  El  Dorado,  the  fables 
of  Florida,  the  demon-haunted  Mississippi  with  its 
tangled  brakes  and  bearded  forests,  the  wondrous 
Children  of  the  Sun,  the  burial  of  De  Soto,  the  pity  of 
Evangeline  are  tales  of  which  the  world  will  never 
weary. 

The  sailors  of  Columbus,  returning,  filled  Europe 
with  marvellous  stories  of  the  Indies,  the  realms  of 
Prester  John,  the  fabulous  wealth  of  Cipango.  Spain, 
the  credulous,  emerging  from  her  victorious  wars  with 
the  Moor,  turned  eagerly  towards  the  West.  Ponce  de 
Leon  searched  the  wilds  of  Florida  for  the  Fountain 
of  Eternal  Youth.  De  Soto  led  his  mail-clad  knights 
through  the  forests  of  Alabama,  weaving  a  story  of  gold 
and  goblins,  more  weird  than  any  adventure  that  ever 
passed  with  the  wine  around  King  Arthur's  Table. 

Through  this  country  the  Chevalier  La  Salle  led  the 
most  quixotic  expedition  ever  conceived  by  mortal  man 
— composed  as  it  was  of  impoverished  nobles,  released 
felons,  Castilian  peasants,  and  San  Domingo  buccaneers 
thirsting  for  the  pillage  of  the  Seven  Cities  of  Gold. 
A  tidal  wave  hurled  him  upon  the  shores  of  Texas  where 
he  built  his  melancholy  fortress  called  "The  St.  Louis 
of  Sorrow."  In  an  effort  to  reach  Canada  on  foot  he 


334  My  Beloved  South 

died  by  an  assassin's  hand  on  the  bank  of  the  Neches 
River. 

Iberville,  Knight  Errant  of  the  Seas ;  De  Tonty  of  the 
Iron  Hand;  Lafitte,  the  pirate  of  Barataria;  Murrell,  the 
robber  of  the  Natchez  trail — traditions  such  as  these 
cast  a  glamour  of  glory  and  a  ray  of  romance  athwart 
the  long  lean  record  of  commercial  entries. 

Bienville  the  Builder,  brother  to  the  chivalrous 
Iberville,  was  the  first  of  all  these  pioneers  who  saw  that 
unlimited  wealth,  power,  and  human  happiness  lay 
concealed  in  the  earth  beneath  their  feet.  He  it  was 
who  foresaw  the  mighty  destiny  of  this  temperate 
climate,  this  fructifying  sun,  these  fertile  lands  lying 
fallow  for  the  conquest  of  the  plough  and  reaping-hook. 
The  kings  of  France  and  Spain,  every  monarch  and 
potentate  who  sent  out  a  colony,  charged  them  specially 
to  seek  for  mines,  to  sift  the  sands  of  the  sea,  and  filter 
the  waters  of  the  Mississippi  which  would  give  up  their 
rich  sediment  of  gold.  The  gold  for  which  Pizarro  had 
sinned  and  De  Soto  died,  Bienville  found  in  the  rich 
soil.  When  he  built  the  ramparts  of  New  Orleans, 
discouraged  the  search  for  mines,  and  set  his  thrifty 
immigrants  to  work  in  the  fields,  Bienville  wrote  the 
preface  to  a  history  of  Southern  change. 

In  later  explorations  and  settlement  such  men  as 
Boone  and  Crockett  led  the  way.  The  axe  and  the 
plough  followed  the  trail  of  the  rifle,  and  the  smoke  of 
the  housewife's  kitchen  uprose  beside  the  temporary 
fire  of  the  huntsman's  camp.  The  dream  of  the  ad- 
venturer began  its  fulfilment,  realised  through  patient 
labour  and  not  by  the  hand  of  conquest.  The  Knight 
Errant  passed  away;  the  farmer  came,  and  the  farmer 
has  changed  the  spirit  of  the  South.  Throughout  the 
period  of  exploration  the  South  attracted  the  adventure- 


Walter  Scott  and  the  Civil  War      335 

loving  cavalier ;  the  North  drew  to  itself  a  steady  middle- 
class  folk  who  hoped  for  more  enduring  success  in  the 
fruits  of  their  toil. 

When  Napoleon's  empire  fell,  many  of  the  highest 
nobles  of  France  sought  an  asylum  in  the  South. 
Alabama  granted  them  lands  and  named  their  country 
"Marengo"  in  honour  of  the  Little  Corporal's  great 
victory.  Dukes  and  marshals,  in  knee-breeches  and 
powdered  hair,  worked  in  the  fields,  while  their  grand 
ladies  in  silks  and  satins  spread  their  remnant  of  silver 
plate  upon  rough-hewn  tables  in  the  humblest  of  log 
cabins.  Louis  Philippe  taught  in  a  school  in  Mississippi 
and  a  runaway  daughter  of  the  Emperor  Charles  lies 
buried  and  forgotten  in  a  cemetery  of  Louisiana.  There 
has  been  so  much  of  romance,  both  of  fact  and  fiction, 
woven  into  the  country's  history  that  it  has  tinctured 
the  life  of  the  people  and  added  a  distinct  touch  of 
idealism  to  their  character. 

With  a  past  like  ours,  we  can  never  be  altogether 
practical  and  commercial,  but  the  day  will  come,  and 
in  many  instances  it  has  already  come,  when  men  and 
women  of  the  South  will  do  great  things  inspired  by  the 
memory  of  that  "romantic  past"  of  which  Mark  Twain 
so  slightingly  speaks.  Notwithstanding  his  disparage- 
ment of  my  country,  I  am  not  ungrateful  to  this  great 
writer  who  has  added  so  much  to  the  gaiety  of  na- 
tions; to  no  one  has  he  given  more  pure  delight  than 
myself.  How  humorous  he  could  be  in  a  few  words! 
Some  one  in  Germany  asked  him  if  he  had  heard  any 
of  Wagner's  operas.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "last  night  I 
listened  to  one  of  his  Insurrections."  And  when  a  girl 
asked  him  his  favourite  motto  he  answered,  "Not 
Guilty ! "  He  was  far  more  convincing  with  his  humour 
than  with  his  serious  writing.  His  little  attack  on  Sir 


336  My  Beloved  South 

Walter  Scott  and  the  South  leaves  one  cold  and  unre- 
sponsive; the  way  in  which  it  is  done  is  unconvincing, 
undistinguished,  and  even  acid. 

Our  bodies  do  not  always  match  our  souls.  I  know 
a  man  in  England,  tall,  fair,  fine  of  stature,  perfect  of 
physique,  classic  in  feature,  yet  his  soul  is  a  little,  dark, 
mean,  petty,  stunted  affair.  I  know  another  man, 
small  and  deformed  of  body,  with  a  wizened  face,  but 
his  soul  is  tall,  handsome,  graceful,  beautiful,  and 
statuesque.  Mark  Twain  ought  to  have  been  a  South- 
erner, but  he  was  born  with  a  too  practical  soul.  His 
hardness  made  him  understand  the  North,  and  he  did 
it  more  than  justice;  his  want  of  romance  made  him 
misunderstand  the  South,  and  he  did  it  less  than  justice. 

Sometimes  a  man  is  born  to  another  nationality.  Sir 
Richard  Burton  was  without  doubt  an  Oriental;  Byron 
was  an  Italian;  Parnell  was  an  American.  All  these 
oddities  and  mysteries  seem  to  fit  in  with  the  theory  of 
reincarnation,  which  is  to  those  who  have  it  an  infinitely 
comforting  belief. 

While  sauntering  through  the  crowded  street, 
Some  half -remembered  face  I  meet, 

Albeit  upon  no  mortal  shore 

That  face,  methinks,  hath  smiled  before. 

Lost  in  a  gay  and  fatal  throng, 
I  tremble  at  some  tender  song 

Set  to  an  air  whose  golden  bars 
I  must  have  heard  in  other  stars. 

One  sails  toward  me  o'er  the  bay, 
And  what  he  comes  to  do  and  say 

I  can  foretell.     A  prescient  lore 
Springs  from  some  life  outlived  of  yore. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

GALLANT,   BRAVE,  HEARTY  KENTUCKY 

Sometime,  from  the  far  away, 

Wing  a  little  thought  to  me, 
In  the  night,  or  in  the  day, 

It  will  give  a  rest  to  me. 

FATHER  THOMAS  RYAN. 

I  THINK  no  city  in  the  South  has  a  larger  number  of 
agreeable  and  cultivated  women  than  Louisville, 
Kentucky.  Without  a  realisation  of  it,  perhaps,  they 
have  always  lived  where  the  standard  of  literature  is 
high.  For  Henry  Watterson,  editor  of  the  Courier- 
Journal,  is  one  of  the  most  brilliant  and  versatile 
journalists  in  America.  His  editorials  are  an  education, 
his  style  is  always  scholarly,  and  he  writes  with  force, 
tenderness,  and  charm.  Nothing  can  be  more  poetic 
than  his  description  of  the  great  hunter  Daniel  Boone's 
discovery  of  Kentucky: 

He  came  afoot,  and  was  followed  by  a  little  troop  of 
heroes  and  poets  like  himself.  I  say  heroes  and  poets  for, 
stirred  by  the  fine  frenzy  of  true  poetry  and  the  adven- 
turous daring  of  true  heroism,  they  set  out  upon  an  enter- 
prise which  brought  forth  an  epic.  Nature  herself  seemed 
conscious  of  the  coming  of  an  important  embassy,  and 
put  on  her  richest  apparel  to  receive  it.  The  pomp  of  all 
the  heraldries  in  the  world  could  not  have  furnished  out  a 
splendider  fete  than  that  which  waited  these  humble 
«  337 


338  My  Beloved  South 

ministers  and  envoys  in  buckskin.  It  was  when  the  June 
skies  were  softest  and  the  June  fruition  was  at  its  full; 
when  the  elm  and  the  maple  vied  with  one  another  which 
should  show  itself  the  more  hospitable  and  magnificent; 
when  the  welcoming  bluebirds'  call  was  clearest  and 
sweetest,  that  the  mysterious  pathway  through  the  forest 
which  had  opened  day  after  day,  not  like  the  fabled  avenue 
in  the  enchanted  garden,  but  like  the  track  pointed  out  to 
Christian  by  divine  inspiration,  brought  the  little  band  to 
an  elevation  from  which  its  members  beheld,  for  the  first 
time,  the  land  they  had  come  so  far  to  see.  Moses, 
stretching  his  weary  eyes  from  Pisgah  into  Canaan,  was 
not  gladdened  and  refreshed  by  a  lovelier  prospect.  It 
was,  Boone  declares  in  his  autobiography,  "a  second 
paradise." 

Mrs.  Clay  in  A  Belle  of  the  Fifties,  gives  a  description 
of  Henry  Watterson  as  a  boy: 

Though  not  members  of  our  resident  circle,  my  memories 
of  dear  old  Brown's  would  scarcely  be  complete  without  a 
mention  of  little  Henry  Watterson,  with  whose  parents  our 
"mess"  continually  exchanged  visits  for  years.  Henry, 
their  only  child,  was  then  an  invalid,  debarred  from  the 
usual  recreations  of  other  boys  by  weak  eyes  that  made  the 
light  unbearable  and  reading  all  but  impossible;  yet  at 
fifteen  the  lad  was  a  born  politician  and  eager  for  every 
item  of  news  from  the  Senate  or  House.  "What  bills  were 
introduced  to-day?  Who  spoke?  Please  tell  me  what  took 
place  to-day?"  were  among  the  questions  with  which  the 
youth  was  wont  to  greet  the  ladies  of  our  "mess, "  when  he 
knew  them  to  be  returning  from  a  few  hours  spent  in  the 
Senate  gallery,  and,  though  none  foresaw  the  later  distinc- 
tion which  awaited  the  young  invalid,  no  one  of  us  was  ever 
so  hurried  and  impatient  that  she  could  not  and  did  not 
take  time  to  answer  his  earnest  enquiries. 


Gallant,  Brave,  Hearty  Kentucky     339 

Much  of  Mr.  Watterson's  work  has  been  lost  in  the 
ephemeral  life  of  the  newspaper,  but  some  beautiful 
essays  have  been  gathered  together  and  preserved  in  his 
book  of  Life's  Compromises.  And  under  his  uncon- 
scious guidance  a  little  group  of  Louisville  women  have 
made  world-wide  reputations  and  fortunes.  Alice 
Hegan  Rice  is,  as  her  name  betokens,  of  Irish  descent. 
Both  she  and  her  mother  have  always  worked  among 
the  poor,  and  out  of  her  philanthropical  experiences 
came  her  first  book,  Mrs.  Wiggs  of  the  Cabbage  Patch, 
which  is  now  known  throughout  the  entire  world, 
both  as  a  story  and  a  play.  She  has  since  married  Cale 
Young  Rice,  a  dramatist  and  poet. 

These  little  verses  of  his  are  full  of  grace  and  feeling: 


I  met  a  child  upon  the  moor 
A- wading  down  the  heather; 

She  put  her  hands  into  my  own, 
We  crossed  the  fields  together. 

I  led  her  to  her  father's  door — 
A  cottage  'mid  the  clover, 

I  left  her — and  the  world  grew  poor 
To  me,  a  childless  rover. 

I  met  a  maid  upon  the  moor, 
The  morrow  was  her  wedding, 

Love  lit  her  eyes  with  lovelier  hues 
Than  the  eve-star  was  shedding. 

She  looked  a  sweet  good-bye  to  me, 
And  o'er  the  stile  went  singing, 

Down  all  the  lonely  night  I  heard 
But  bridal  bells  a-ringing. 


340  My  Beloved  South 

I  met  a  mother  on  the  moor, 

By  a  new  grave  a-praying, 
The  happy  swallows  in  the  blue 

Upon  the  winds  were  playing. 

"Would  I  were  in  his  grave,"  I  said, 
"And  he  beside  her  standing! 
There  was  no  heart  to  break  if  death 
For  me  had  made  demanding." 

The  poet  and  the  authoress  have  a  pretty  house 
filled  with  souvenirs  of  wanderings  in  many  lands.  Mrs. 
Rice  is  a  delightful  woman,  generous  and  inspiring  to 
other  writers.  She  is,  indeed,  the  fairy-godmother  of 
that  popular  book,  The  Lady  of  the  Decoration.  Mrs. 
McCauley,  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Rice's,  went  to  Japan  as  a 
missionary,  and  while  there  wrote  such  charming  letters 
home  that  Alice  Hegan  thought  the  public  should  have  a 
share  in  their  pleasure,  and  she  carried  them  to  a  pub- 
lisher who  said  that,  with  the  addition  of  a  slight  love 
story,  he  would  publish  them.  So  the  little  romance 
was  deftly  threaded  through  the  chain  of  letters  and  the 
book  made  an  enormous  success.  Think  of  the  delight 
of  waking  up  in  the  morning,  and  finding  the  post  had 
brought  you  a  book  written  by  yourself  of  which  you 
knew  nothing! 

Elizabeth  Robins  is  another  of  the  remarkable  women 
born  in  Louisville.  I  have  seen  her  act  in  many  plays, 
and  she  has  the  same  rare  and  unique  intellectual  gift 
as  an  actress  that  has  made  Mrs.  Fiske  so  famous.  It  is 
what  she  is  keeping  back  and  might  say  and  not  what 
she  does  say  that  is  so  curiously  thrilling!  Who  will 
ever  forget  her  in  the  Master  Builder — an  exterior  of 
ice  covering  a  fiery  volcano,  with  a  manner  mysteriously 
compelling  and  excitingly  evoking  curiosity.  She  was 


Gallant,  Brave,  Hearty  Kentucky     341 

equally  good  as  Agnes  in  Brand,  and  she  was  quite  real 
and  heartbreaking  in  a  little  unacknowledged  play  of  her 
own.  It  was  the  story  of  a  woman  who  worshipped 
health  and  strength  and  physical  beauty,  and  deplored 
and  abhorred  deformity  and  weakness.  The  husband 
of  the  woman  was  a  master  machinist,  a  man  of  physical 
perfection.  Before  the  birth  of  their  child  he  was 
brought  home  maimed  and  dead.  The  baby  born  into 
the  world  was  a  malformed  cripple,  and  the  mother, 
rather  than  have  him  grow  up  never  to  walk  or  run  or 
jump  like  a  normal  boy,  smothers  him,  although  she 
loved  the  poor  little  creature  with  great  intensity,  and 
is  tried  for  murder.  Miss  Robins  in  this  strange  story 
was  appealing,  intense,  and  touchingly  convincing,  but 
the  critics  with  one  accord  slaughtered  the  play.  Men 
— even  critics — so  dislike  the  painful  problem  of  a 
woman's  life.  Now  she  is  known  through  her  pen. 
The  Open  Question,  if  not  absolutely  satisfying,  is  still 
a  powerful  novel,  and,  intellectually  she  has  taken  her 
place  among  the  first  writers  of  her  generation. 

George  Madden  Martin,  another  successful  woman, 
tall  and  slim  with  pretty  flower-blue  eyes,  has  an  en- 
gaging personality,  most  agreeable  and  gentle  manner, 
and  is  the  author  of  Emmy  Lou,  a  little  book  which 
has  deservedly  gone  into  innumerable  editions.  Like 
Margaret  Deland,  she  is  childless,  but  she  needs  no 
children  of  her  own  to  give  her  the  humorous,  tender 
understanding  of  a  child's  heart,  and  the  creations  of  her 
brain  only  require  flesh  and  blood  to  become  human, 
lovable  boys  and  girls. 

And  there  is  dear  Maud  Cossar — with  her  beauty, 
her  many-sided  nature,  her  varied  accomplishments,  her 
quick  sympathy,  and  her  stern  discipline  by  Fate,  she 
is  more  the  figure  for  a  novel  than  a  real  woman.  But 


342  My  Beloved  South 

who  so  full  of  resource,  and  so  practical  as  she?  An 
accomplished  journalist,  she  turns  out  a  column  of  copy 
daily  for  the  Herald  with  infinite  ease,  and  her  nimble 
brain  finds  only  amusement  in  those  absurd  questions 
propounded  by  the  curious  and  the  idle  to  the  all-wise 
editors  of  newspapers.  Then,  she  is  a  deft  needle- 
woman, an  excellent  cook,  whenever  she  has  the  oppor- 
tunity an  open-air  woman  with  a  keen  appreciation  of 
nature,  a  born  gardener,  and  a  true  lover  of  animals. 
Even  Jack  London  cannot  write  more  tenderly  of  dogs 
than  Maud  can  talk  of  them.  Her  tale  of  "Stray  Baby  " 
a  humorously  pathetic  story  of  a  homeless  dog  after- 
wards adopted  by  the  staff  of  the  Herald, 'might  well  be 
made  into  a  little  book. 

And  there  is  Barbour  Bruce  who  might  have  been  a 
writer,  but  is  only  known  as  a  trenchant  wit — "Who," 
she  asked  at  a  party,  "was  that  nice,  well-dressed, 
refined,  common  woman  who  has  just  had  her  cup  of 
tea  and  gone  away?"  This  complete  description  fitted 
the  lady  like  her  skin.  She  was  an  American  educated 
in  France  and  Italy,  had  lived  much  of  her  life  in  Eng- 
land, and,  given  every  advantage  of  education  and  so- 
ciety, was  quietly  refined  in  manner,  but  her  soul  was 
common.  Only  the  quickest  and  most  penetrating  eye 
however  would  have  discovered  the  deal  beneath  the 
shining  veneer. 

The  night  after  my  arrival  in  Louisville,  Barbour  had 
asked  half  a  dozen  friends  to  supper,  and  when  she 
went  into  the  kitchen  of  the  apartment  to  give  the  cook 
an  order,  she  found  this  independent  black  lady  had 
gone  to  church.  When  my  hostess  with  a  vexed  and 
anxious  face  opened  the  door  and  looked  in,  Maud, 
who  was  in  the  little  flower-decked  drawing-room, 
dressed  in  white  chiffon,  with  a  wreath  of  silver  leaves 


Gallant,  Brave,  Hearty  Kentucky     343 

on  her  thick  burnished  hair,  immediately  went  to  her. 
Presently  Barbour  returned  with  a  relieved,  cheerful 
expression,  and  her  serviceable  guest,  with  her  delicate 
gown  covered  by  a  big  apron  was  in  the  kitchen  gaily 
cooking  supper,  which  she  had  been  invited  to  eat. 
How  good  and  how  hot  it  was;  never,  never,  have  I 
eaten  such  deliciously  flavoured  macaroni.  Its  delicacy 
may  have  been  enhanced  by  the  chaplet  of  silver  and 
the  white  gown,  but  certainly  that  dish  was  perfection, 
and  Maud's  very  pink  cheeks  were  the  only  evidence  of 
her  most  beneficent  occupation.  Perhaps,  after  all,  the 
best  thing  about  her  is  not  her  beauty,  which  is  of  the 
noble,  classical,  durable  kind — a  low  broad  brow,  fine 
eyes,  straight  nose,  a  well-cut  mouth,  and  a  correctly 
modelled  contour  of  face — but  her  great  heart,  and  her 
firm  hands  constantly  busy  in  service.  She  has  made 
just  the  right  marriage,  to  a  fellow- journalist,  young  and 
ambitious,  who  first  appealed  to  her  by  his  affection- 
ate attentions  to  "Stray  Baby," — for  only  a  man  who 
loved  children  and  animals,  flowers,  trees,  a  home,  and 
friends  could  attract  Maud. 
Barbour  writes  to  me : 

Maud  and  Aubrey  have  bought  a  cottage  that  I  always 
loved  as  a  child.  I  never  remember  all  through  the  winter 
the  many-paned  windows  not  being  ablaze  with  beckoning 
lamplight  and  firelight.  I  longed  to  go  in  but  never  did. 
Now  at  twilight  I  shall  often  lift  the  latch,  and  what  a  home 
Maud  will  make  Aubrey!  But  he  knows  it,  and  is  proudly 
grateful. 

Pretty,  tall,  young  Letetia  MacDonald,  another 
aspirant  for  literature,  is  having  the  way  of  the  story- 
writer  made  exceedingly  easy  for  her.  And  there  are 
other  clever  women  who  have  not  expressed  themselves 


344  My  Beloved  South 

through  the  pen.  Mary  Johnson  is  one  of  them;  not 
the  great  little  Mary  Johnston  of  Richmond,  who  wrote 
To  Have  and  To  Hold,  but  Louisville's  Mary  Johnson,  a 
well-known  Friend,  devoted,  unselfish,  and  uncompro- 
misingly loyal.  With  her  ' '  The  King  can  do  no  wrong, ' ' 
and  Kentuckians  are  proverbially  generous.  She  gets 
back  what  she  gives.  On  one  of  her  late  birthdays  her 
friends  gave  her  a  dinner,  with  a  speech  and  a  loving- 
cup  filled  to  the  brim,  and  running  over  with  love. 
There  was  a  long  silence  before  she  could  frame  her 
thanks  for  their  unexpected  appreciation.  Then  came 
a  hearty  "Hurrah  Friend!"  to  cover  the  feeling  her 
trembling  speech  brought  forth.  Her  judgment  is  as 
good  about  books  as  about  men  and  women.  An 
omnivorous  reader  of  both  foreign  and  American  lit- 
erature, her  opinion  has  the  value  of  a  professional 
reviewer's. 

Louisville  prides  itself,  and  with  reason,  upon  its 
open-armed  hospitality,  and  lavishly  as  those  delightful 
women  entertained  me,  one  unforgotten  field-day  stands 
out  in  my  memory.  It  began  in  the  early  morning  with 
flowers  and  friends,  then  followed  a  luncheon  party,  a 
concert,  a  tea,  a  small  dinner,  a  large  opera  party,  and 
then  a  supper  at  the  Pendennis  Club  completed  the 
festivities.  In  spite  of  the  strenuous  day  I  was  quite 
fresh  for  a  dinner  the  next  night,  and  sat  at  the  right 
hand  of  Judge  Humphrey,  a  most  entertaining  man,  who 
informed  me  that  through  the  Popes  we  were  distant 
cousins.  And  we  are  cousins.  Far-away  relationships 
are  so  convenient ;  if  you  like  your  kins-people  you  boldly 
acknowledge  them,  if  not,  like  Peter  you  deny  them. 

Having  settled  our  cousinship,  we  fell  to  discussing 
our  families,  and  when  my  grandmother's  name  was 
mentioned,  Judge  Humphrey  said,  "Then  you  must  be 


Gallant,  Brave,  Hearty  Kentucky     345 

a  relation  of  Colonel  Hynes,  who  had  such  a  remarkable 
experience  during  the  war.  He  was  suspected  of  being 
a  Confederate  spy,  and  being  hotly  pursued  by  the 
Union  infantry,  he  took  refuge  in  the  house  of  a  friend 
whose  wife  was  ill  in  bed.  He  had  only  been  in  the 
house  a  few  minutes  when  the  measured  tread  of  sol- 
diers marching  up  the  garden  path  was  heard.  '  Quick ! ' 
said  his  host.  '  What  am  I  to  say?  What  are  you  going 
to  do?'  'Fumble  at  the  lock  of  the  door, '  said  Colonel 
Hynes;  'don't  open  it  any  sooner  than  you  can  help. 
Will  you  let  me  hide  myself  in  your  wife's  room  ? '  '  Yes, ' 
said  his  host,  'and  for  God's  sake  be  quick  about  it!' 

"Colonel  Hynes  ran  up  the  stairs,  explained  the  situa- 
tion to  the  startled  invalid,  slit  with  his  knife  the  feather 
mattress  she  was  lying  on,  crept  into  it,  and,  although 
the  soldiers  knew  he  was  in  the  house,  no  trace  of  him 
could  be  found.  But  there  is  something  in  mental 
telepathy,  for,  notwithstanding  that  every  inch  of 
every  room  was  searched,  the  captain  of  the  soldiers 
insisted  on  the  lady's  bedroom  door  being  left  open  and 
stationed  two  men  in  the  hall.  There  they  sat  for 
forty-eight  hours,  the  prisoner  never  moving  and 
scarcely  breathing.  At  the  end  of  that  time  the 
soldiers  left  the  house  and  camped  in  the  garden.  The 
host  said,  'Now  what  am  I  to  do?'  'Give  a  party,' 
said  Colonel  Hynes.  "  Get  me  a  suit  of  evening  clothes 
and  I  '11  shave  off  my  beard  and  walk  past  the  guard, 
and  he  '11  never  know  me. '  And  he  made  his  escape 
just  as  he  said." 

Judge  Humphrey  and  his  wife  and  daughters  have 
the  good  fortune  to  live  on  the  River  Road.  Years 
ago  the  old  Fincastle  Club,  standing  in  solitary  state, 
was  for  sale;  being  roomy  and  spacious  they  bought 
and  transformed  it  into  a  delightful  house.  Now  they 


346  My  Beloved  South 

have  a  number  of  neighbours,  Mrs.  Avery  Robinson, 
Mrs.  Thurston  Ballard,  Mrs.  Tom  Smith,  Mrs.  Charles 
Ballard,  and  a  large  contingent  of  Louisville  people  live 
on  the  green  hills  overlooking  the  Ohio,  which  on  its 
way  to  the  Mississippi  runs  between  green  fields  on  the 
one  side  and  lovely  undulating  hills  covered  with  ver- 
dure on  the  other.  Cedar,  cotton,  pine,  and  maple 
trees  give  ample  shade,  and  the  views  are  wide  and 
varied.  In  the  happy  days  of  May,  I  stood  on  a  noble 
crest  which  had  been  levelled  and  blossomed  in  the 
earliest  flowers  of  spring.  Beds  of  pale  lemon,  deep 
purple,  and  parti-coloured  heartsease  outlined  lilies  of 
the  valley,  while  pink  and  yellow  tulips  lifted  their 
tender  heads,  and  down  the  emerald  hills,  like  amber 
water,  trickled  many  golden  daffodils.  On  the  level  of 
the  land  ran  the  River  Road  like  a  golden-brown  riband, 
and  the  river,  blue  from  the  reflection  of  the  sky  above, 
flowed  swiftly  between  its  green  banks  to  the  sea.  As 
the  gorgeous  sunset  poured  its  golden  glamour  over  all 
things  near  and  far,  the  summit  of  the  distant  hills 
blazed  with  colour.  Rich  amber,  prismatic  opal, 
misty  blue,  pearl  and  violet  shone  resplendent,  until 
the  sinking  sun  co-mingled  them  all  in  a  lake  of  deepest, 
purest,  transparent  rose.  Then,  regretfully,  the  lam- 
bent twilight  descended,  turning  the  rose  into  a  fiery 
purple,  and  the  mantle  of  night  enfolded  the  River 
Road  in  soft  embrace. 

Barbour  came  out  on  the  terrace  and  said,  "We  must 
go  to  Frankfort  to-morrow  to  see  Mrs.  Wilson." 
"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  want  to  see  Hoodie  again.  We 
have  n't  met  since  we  were  both  sixteen.  Her  father, 
General  Ekin,  was  then  stationed  in  Texas.  She  was  a 
charming  girl."  "She  is  a  charming  woman,"  Bar- 
bour said ;  "  you  won't  be  disappointed  in  her. " 


347 

Next  day,  Governor  Wilson,  a  frank,  cordial  man, 
met  us  at  the  station  in  Frankfort  and  we  walked  to  the 
Executive  Mansion,  such  a  dear  old-fashioned,  comfort- 
able Southern  house.  The  floors  of  the  large  rooms 
were  covered  with  white  matting.  There  were  com- 
fortable chairs,  plenty  of  books,  magazines,  and  news- 
papers, and  a  noble  blue-and-white  drawing-room. 
The  plans  are  drawn  for  a  splendid  new  house  opposite 
the  Capitol,  but  will  anybody  enjoy  it  as  much  as  the 
old  one,  I  wonder? 

Mrs.  Wilson,  an  agreeable  and  hospitable  woman,  gave 
me  a  warm  welcome.  Through  all  the  years  she  had 
never  forgotten  me.  But  after  we  had  talked  for  a 
while  she  said  it  was  hard  to  reconcile  Betty  Paschal, 
the  girl  who  danced  in  Texas,  danced  in  New  Orleans, 
and  danced  in  Washington,  the  teetotum  in  fact,  with 
the  grey-haired  lady  seeking  information  about  politics, 
tobacco,  trusts,  corn,  and  cattle.  I  said :  "  Solomon,  you 
know,  mentioned  that  there  was  'A  time  to  weep,  a 
time  to  laugh;  a  time  to  mourn,  and  a  time  to  dance;  a 
time  to  cast  away  stones,  and  a  time  to  gather  stones.' " 

"Well,  at  any  rate,"  said  she,  "it  is  plain  to  see  you 
are  gathering  information.  You  won't  have  to  dance 
to-night,  only  to  talk  to  a  party  of  twelve  at  dinner. 
And  it 's  time  for  you  to  dress.  Don't  let  my  maid 
bother  you  with  too  much  conversation.  She  means 
well,  poor  soul,  but  her  mother  died  in  a  lunatic  asylum 
and  I  'm  afraid  she  's  going  the  same  way."  We  had 
a  few  minutes  together  before  the  guests  arrived  and 
Hoodie  said  the  butler  had  no  footman  to  assist  him, 
but  was  so  quick  and  capable  that  no  matter  how  many 
there  were  to  wait  upon  he  was  equal  to  the  occasion. 
"  How  lucky  you  are  to  get  him ! "  I  said.  "  Where  did 
he  come  from?" 


348  My  Beloved  South 

"The  Penitentiary,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson. 

"A  convict?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  laughed  Mrs.  Wilson,  "but  nothing  vulgar, 
my  dear  Betty,  like  thieving.  It  was  jealousy." 

"Do  you  know,"  I  said,  "he  's  awfully  like  Salvini 
in  Othello.  Did  he  smother  her?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson,  "he  told  her  to  stay  at 
home  and  forbade  her  to  go  out  and  meet  her  lover. 
She  defied  him,  got  as  far  as  the  door,  and  he  shot  her, 
and  nearly  died  of  grief  afterwards.  He  is  only  a  ticket- 
of-leave  man,  but  he  is  an  inestimable  treasure  as  a 
butler." 

And  with  any  number  of  courses  at  dinner,  we  were 
not  more  than  an  hour  and  a  quarter  at  table.  That 
tall,  fine-looking  Moor — I  'm  certain  he  is  a  Moor  and 
probably  came  from  the  colony  in  New  Jersey  where  the 
negroes  are  proud  of  their  Moorish  descent — was  as 
quick  as  lightning.  The  glasses  of  the  guests  were  kept 
well  filled,  and  he  was  quite  equal  to  three  ordinary 
waiters.  After  the  guests  had  departed  I  said  to 
Hoodie:  "If  it  had  been  possible  to  loot  the  table  to- 
night, I  should  have  taken  Mrs.  Berry's  beautiful  hair, 
Mrs.  Scott's  old  gorgeously  painted  Spanish  fan,  Mary 
Mason  Scott's  bunch  of  pearl  grapes  with  diamond 
leaves,  and  your  husband. " 

" Oh, "  said  Hoodie,  "you  would  n't  take  my  husband 
away  from  me,  Betty?" 

I  replied :  "There  's  no  danger.  You  've  got  him;  he 
would  n't  come. " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Hoodie;  "I  Ve  brought  him  up 
to  adore  you,"  and  with  this  charming  compliment  I 
went  to  bed. 

"Are  you,"  said  Barbour,  calling  from  her  room 
adjoining  mine,  "enjoying  yourself?" 


Gallant,  Brave,  Hearty  Kentucky     349 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  'm  entirely  happy." 

"Well,"  said  Barbour,  "you  like  adventure.  It 
is  n't  everybody  who  is  waited  on  by  a  lunatic  and  a 
murderer!" 

The  next  morning  was  spent  at  the  New  State  Capitol 
which  occupies  a  beautiful  situation  on  a  sloping  hill, 
overlooking  green  valleys  and  the  Kentucky  River.  The 
architecture  is  noble  and  impressive  and  the  interior 
simple  and  good.  Governor  Wilson  chose  the  furnish- 
ing, and  though  he  says  he  knows  nothing  of  art,  he  has 
made  no  mistakes.  Men  are  so  often  wise  in  rejecting 
too  much  detail  and  over-ornamentation,  and  there  is 
nothing  so  completely  satisfactory  as  a  fine  simplicity. 
We  went  into  the  Governor's  room.  He  was  full  of  in- 
formation and  possessed  any  amount  of  local  literature. 

"  Do  you  know, "  he  said,  handing  me  a  leaflet,  "  this 
song  in  praise  of  Kentucky?  " 

"  Know'st  thou  the  land  where  the  corn  tassels  bloom, 
Where  the  mystical  cocktail  exhales  its  perfume, 
Where  the  high-balls  sparkle  with  flavour  divine, 
And  the  'Schooners'  sail  fast  'neath  the  shade  of  the  vine? 
Know'st  thou  that  land,  that  beautiful  land? 

"Know'st  thou  the  land  where  the  Julep  was  born, 
Where  the  mint  yields  its  breast  to  the  spirit  of  corn, 
Where  the  ice  strikes  the  glass  with  a  musical  sound, 
And  the  straw  shrieks  aloud  when  the  bottom  is  found? 
Know'st  thou  that  land,  that  beautiful  land? 

"Hear'st  thou  the  call  of  the  Blue-grass  to  thee? 
Come  over  the  river,  come  Southward  to  me, 
Where  a  welcome  awaits  from  Kentucky's  old  boys, 
Oh,  come  to  that  South  land  and  taste  of  her  joys! 
Oh,  come  to  that  land,  that  beautiful  land! 


350  My  Beloved  South 

"Know'st  not  that  land?     Then  thou  art  unlucky. 
'T  is  gallant,  't  is  brave,  't  is  hearty  Kentucky, 
That  calls  from  the  River  that  flows  to  the  Sea, 
Come  Southward  to  meet  us,  cross  over  and  see. 
Oh,  come  to  that  land,  that  beautiful  land!" 

"I  don't  believe,"  I  said,  "that  even  Kentucky 
cocktails  are  better  than  those  in  Virginia. " 

"Maybe  not,"  replied  the  Governor;  "Virginia  is 
just  across  the  river.  Here  's  something  else  for  you. " 

And  he  gave  me  a  little  book,  Kentucky  Arbour  and 
Bird  Day. 

I  read  the  "Arbour  Day  Proclamation  "  while  he  and 
Barbour  talked. 

ARBOUR  DAY   PROCLAMATION 

To  the  People  of  Kentucky: 

It  takes  a  long,  long  time  during  the  lives  of  several 
people  for  a  tree  to  grow  great.  It  takes  only  a  little  while 
to  kill  it.  We  have  wasted  hundreds  of  millions  of  trees 
that  it  took  more  than  one  hundred  years  to  grow.  We  are 
using  millions  of  trees  every  year  now  and  putting  nothing 
in  their  place.  We  ought  to  plant  more  trees  than  we  are 
using  every  year.  We  have  millions  of  acres  of  lands  that 
will  not  grow  anything  else  but  trees,  and  we  could  cover 
them  all  with  trees.  We  have  bare  places  along  the  roads 
and  in  the  streets  and  in  the  yards  and  on  the  farms  every- 
where, that  will  not  be  used  for  buildings  or  crops  or  any- 
thing else,  where  trees  could  be  planted  that  would  make 
those  who  come  after  us  rich,  and  would  make  the  face  of  the 
earth  beautiful  for  us. 

Let  us  all  get  together  and  all  plant  trees  and  all  ask 
everybody  else  to  plant  trees,  and  let  us  have  a  special 
meeting  on  the  8th  day  of  April,  1910,  in  every  schoolhouse 
and  other  good  places  for  meetings,  to  talk  over  how  to  have 
more  trees,  how  to  make  every  place  more  beautiful,  how 


Gallant,  Brave,  Hearty  Kentucky     351 

to  plant,  how  to  save  something  for  the  people  fifty  years 
from  now  who  won't  have  any  wood  if  we  do  not  do  some- 
thing about  it,  how  to  put  some  of  our  prayers  for  blessings 
to  come  to  people,  hereafter  in  living  shape,  by  starting 
trees  that  will  answer  our  own  prayers. 

Let  us  plant  trees  for  ourselves  and  for  all  whom  we  love. 
Let  us  plant  trees  for  the  future  and  for  this  year  and  next 
year  and  every  year.  Let  us  plant  trees  for  profit,  for 
gladness,  for  beauty,  for  conversation,  for  storage  of  the 
rain  water,  for  houses  and  furniture,  for  everything  for 
which  we  use  wood,  for  our  own  sake,  for  our  children's  sake, 
for  our  grandchildren's  sake,  and  for  humanity's  sake. 

AUGUSTUS  E.  WILSON, 

Governor  of  Kentucky. 

March  10, 1910. 

"What  an  enchanting  idea  to  make  the  interest  in 
birds,  trees,  and  flowers  a  tangible  thing,"  I  said.  As 
I  turned  the  leaves  of  the  book  and  dipped  into  it  here 
and  there,  delightful  woodland  scraps  of  information 
met  my  eye. 

"INTERESTING  FACTS  ABOUT  TREES." 

The  largest  tree  in  the  world  is  the  great  chestnut  tree  at 
the  foot  of  Mount  Etna  which  is  called  '  'Chestnut  Tree  of  a 
Hundred  Horses,"  and  is  thought  to  be  one  of  the  oldest 
trees  in  existence.  Five  enormous  branches  rise  from  one 
great  trunk,  which  is  two  hundred  and  twelve  feet  in  cir- 
cumference. A  part  of  the  trunk  has  been  broken  away  and 
through  its  interior,  which  is  hollow,  two  carriages  can  be 
driven  abreast. 

The  costliest  tree  in  the  world  is  the  plane  tree  growing  in 
Wood  Street,  London,  England,  occupying  a  space  which, 
but  for  its  being  there,  would  bring  in  a  rental  of  $1500  a 
year,  and  this,  capitalised  at  thirty  years'  purchase,  gives 
value  of  $45,000. 


352  My  Beloved  South 

How  often  I  've  been  to  Wood  Street  and  have  never 
seen  this  plane  tree.  One  of  my  first  journeys  will  be 
to  make  its  acquaintance  on  my  return  to  dear  smoky 
London. 

In  Terre  Bonne  Parish,  Louisiana,  the  largest  orange 
tree  in  the  South  grows.  It  is  fifty  feet  high  and  fifteen 
feet  in  circumference  at  the  base,  and  has  often  yielded 
10,000  oranges  per  season. 

To  own  one  tree  like  this  would  mean  happiness. 

"Summer  or  winter,  day  or  night, 
The  woods  are  ever  a  new  delight ; 
They  give  us  peace  and  they  make  us  strong, 
Such  wonderful  balms  to  them  belong; 
So,  living  or  dying,  I  '11  take  mine  ease 
Under  the  trees,  under  the  trees." 

"DEBATE" 
"White  Oak  Group" 

White  Oak. 
Bur  Oak. 
Chestnut  Oak. 
Overcup  Oak. 
Post  Oak. 
Cow  Oak. 
Live  Oak. 

A  special  talk  topic — the  commercial  value  of  the  oak 
galls.  The  oldest  document  in  America  was  written  with 
ink  made  from  oak  galls,  and  is  practically  indelible. 

The  oak  in  literature.  Reading:  Phocius,  Lowell. 
Selections:  Thoreau,  Browning. 

"  I  hear  the  wind  among  the  trees 
Play  celestial  harmonies. " 


Gallant,  Brave,  Hearty  Kentucky     353 

How  wholesome,  cheerful,  comforting  and  healthy  is  the 
love  of  trees  and  flowers,  for — 


"  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her.     'T  is  her  privilege 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  one  life  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy;  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us." 

"There  is  no  unbelief. 
Who  ever  plants  a  seed  beneath  the  sod 
And  waits  to  see  it  push  away  the  clod 
Trusts  in  God." 

"We  must  not  hope  to  be  mowers, 

And  to  gather  the  ripe,  golden  ears, 
Unless  we  first  have  been  sowers 

And  watered  the  flowers  with  tears. 
It  is  not  just  as  we  take  it, 

This  wonderful  world  of  ours, 
Life's  field  will  yield  as  we  make  it, 

A  harvest  of  thorns  or  of  flowers. " 


And  I  read  for  the  first  time  Oliver  Herford's  charm- 
ing lines  on  the  origin  of  violets : 

"I  know,  blue  modest  violets, 

Gleaming  with  dew  at  morn, 
I  know  the  place  you  come  from 
And  the  way  that  you  are  born. 

"When  God  cut  holes  in  Heaven, 

The  holes  the  stars  look  through, 
He  let  the  scraps  fall  down  to  earth, 

The  little  scraps  are  you." 
33 


354  My  Beloved  South 

Turning  a  few  pages,  I  came  upon  an  appreciation  of 
birds,  beginning  with  those  joyous  lines: 

"His  gentle- joyf ill  song  I  heard, 
Now  see  if  you  can  tell,  my  dear, 
What  bird  it  is  that  every  year, 
Sings,  'sweet!  sweet!  sweet!  very  merry  cheer.'" 

And  Edgar  Fawcett's  colourful  ode  on  the  Baltimore 
oriole  with  his  rainbow  tints  and  his  velvet  song : 

"At  some  glad  moment  was  it  Nature's  choice, 
To  dower  a  scrap  of  sunset  with  a  voice? 
Or  did  some  orange  tulip,  flaked  with  black, 
In  some  forgotten  garden  ages  back, 
Yearning  toward  Heaven  until  its  wish  was  heard, 
Desire  unspeakably  to  be  a  bird?" 

Then  came  Henry  Van  Dyke's  "  Robin's  Song  " : 

"  This  is  the  carol  the  robin  throws 
Over  the  edge  of  the  valley; 
Listen  how  boldly  it  flows, 
Sally  on  sally: 

Tirra-lirra, 

Down  the  river, 

Laughing  water 

All  a-quiver. 

Day  is  near, 

Clear,  clear, 

Fish  are  breaking, 

Time  for  waking. 

Tup,  tup,  tup! 

Do  you  hear? 

All  clear — 

Wake  up!" 


Gallant,  Brave,  Hearty  Kentucky     355 

Barbour  said:  "Would  you  mind  discontinuing  the 
reading  of  your  book  and  saying  good-bye  to  Governor 
Wilson?  You  can  finish  it  in  the  train. " 

My  visit  to  Frankfort  was  all  too  short,  but  I  wanted 
to  get  to  the  Blue  Grass  Country,  and  see  for  myself 
if  the  grass  was  really  blue,  and  truly  it  was,  for  the 
luscious  juice  makes  it  thick,  dark,  and  heavy  enough 
to  cast  shadows  of  blue  over  the  shimmer  of  green.  No 
wonder  with  such  nutritious  food  the  Blue  Grass  region 
produces  splendid  horses,  ponies,  cows,  and  sheep. 
We  visited  the  fancy  farm  of  Mr.  Haggin  and  met 
whole  regiments  of  cows  walking  at  milking-time  into 
their  white  marble  stalls,  where  they  were  washed, 
curried,  and  apparently  manicured.  And  at  Castlewood 
we  saw  the  splendid  farms  and  stables  and  stroked  the 
noses  of  the  soft,  silky,  bright-eyed  colts,  which  will 
probably  in  the  future  make  celebrated  race  horses. 
On  another  smaller  farm  there  were  dozens  of  sturdy, 
shaggy  little  Shetland  ponies  being  clipped  and  beauti- 
fied for  the  market.  The  day  before  I  left  that  wonder- 
ful rich  grass  region,  it  rained  from  early  morning  until 
misty  evening,  and  looking  out  on  the  drenched  garden 
I  remembered  Madison  Cawein's  "Grey  Day." 

"  Long  vollies  of  wind  and  of  rain 
And  the  rain  on  the  drizzled  pane 

And  the  eve  falls  chill  and  murk; 
But  on  yesterday's  eve,  I  know 
How  a  horned  moon's  thorn-like  bow 
Stabbed  rosy  thro'  gold  and  thro'  glow, 

Like  a  rich  barbaric  dirk. 

"  Now  thick  throats  of  the  snapdragons — 
Who  hold  in  their  hues  cool  dawns 
Which  a  healthy  yellow  paints — 


356  My  Beloved  South 

Are  filled  with  a  sweet  rain  fine, 
Of  a  jaunty,  jubilant  shine, 
A  faery  vat  of  rare  wine, 

Which  the  honey  thinly  taints. 

**  Now  dabble  the  poppies  shrink, 
And  the  coxcomb  and  the  pink, 

While  the  candytuft's  damp  crown 
Droops  dribbled,  low-bowed  in  the  wet. 
And  long  spikes  o'  the  mignonette 
Like  musk-sacks  open  set, 

While  the  dripping  o*  dew  drags  down. 

"  Stretched  taut  on  the  blades  of  grass, 
Like  a  gossamer-fibred  glass 

Which  the  garden  spider  spun, 
The  web,  where  the  round  rain  clings 
In  its  middle  sagging,  swings ; 
A  hammock  for  Elfin  things 

Where  the  stars  succeed  the  sun. 

"  Yet  I  feel  that  the  grey  will  blow 
Aside  for  an  afterglow; 

And  a  breeze  on  a  sudden,  toss 
Drenched  boughs  to  a  pattering  show'r 
Athwart  the  red  dusk  in  a  glow'r, 
Big  drops  heard  hard  on  each  flow'r, 

On  the  grass  and  the  flowering  moss. 

*'  And  then,  for  a  minute,  maybe — 
A  pearl — hollow-worn — of  the  sea — 

A  glimmer  of  moon  will  smile; 
Cool  stars  rinsed  clean  o'  the  dusk ; 
A  freshness  of  gathering  musk 
O'er  the  showery  lawns,  as  brusk 

As  spice  from  an  Indian  Isle." 


Gallant,  Brave,  Hearty  Kentucky     357 

And  at  last  when  the  rain  ceased,  I  wrapped  a  shawl 
round  me,  and  went  out  to  look  at  the  "  Cool  stars  rinsed 
clean,"  to  breathe  the  soft,  light,  fragrant  air,  and  to 
gather  a  posy  of  carnations,  mignonette,  and  rosemary 
in  sweet  remembrance,  for  this  was  my  last  night  in 
Kentucky. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN 

They  declare  that  I  'm  gracefully  pretty, 

The  very  best  waltzer  that  whirls; 
They  say  I  am  sparkling  and  witty, 

The  pearl,  the  queen -rose-bud  of  girls, 
But,  alas,  for  the  popular  blindness! 

Its  judgment,  though  folly,  can  hurt; 
Since  my  heart,  that  runs  over  with  kindness, 

It  vows  is  the  heart  of  a  flirt! 

HATNE. 

MY  first  day  in  Richmond  was  almost  as  busy  and  as 
full  of  change  as  one  of  "Old  Reliable's"  days. 
I  got  up  early  and  a  friend  called  to  go  with  me  to 
select  a  hat.  We  saw  one  in  a  window  and  I  said, 
"  That 's  what  I  want. "  We  went  in,  I  tried  it  on,  and 
bought  it.  From  the  moment  we  left  the  hotel  until 
the  hat  was  mine  only  ten  minutes  elapsed.  After 
that  we  walked  down  a  beautiful  street,  where  a  noted 
belle  once  lived,  who,  in  Southern  fashion,  was  secretly 
engaged  to  three  men  at  the  same  time. 

"They  all  lived  in  different  towns,"  my  friend  said, 
"but  belonged  to  the  same  club  in  Richmond.  Fate 
brought  them  together  one  night,  and  under  the  in- 
fluence of  mint  juleps  of  a  particular  concoction  and 
strength  they  became  confidential,  and  finally  found 
out  that  each  one  had  the  same  sweetheart.  They 

358 


A  Virginia  Gentleman  359 

resolved  upon  a  plan  of  action,  and  determined  to  teach 
her  a  lesson,  so  next  morning  they  all  went  together  to 
call  upon  her.  She  entered  the  parlour  looking  so 
beautiful  and  fresh  in  her  white  muslin  dress  and  little 
white  shoes,  that  each  man  forgave  her  and  hoped  he 
was  the  fortunate  one.  The  spokesman  hesitated  and 
stuttered,  and,  looking  at  her  corn-flower  blue  eyes  and 
crown  of  golden  hair,  he  altered  the  severity  of  his  speech 
and  said, '  We  are  all  engaged  to  you,  and  we  all  love  you 
desperately,  and  we  have  all  come  to  ask,  with  charity 
to  all  and  malice  to  none,  which  one  of  us  is  it  to  be?' 

"She  looked  very  mischievous  but  at  the  same  time 
very  tender,  and  said:  'Well,  gentlemen,  there  is  a 
fourth.  I  have  been  ficklewise,  but  please  forgive  me. 
This  time  I  am  in  love. ' 

'"May  we,'  said  the  spokesman,  'ask  who  is  the 
happy  fourth?' 

"'Yes,'  she  said,  'he  is  John  Gates.' 

"'The  Dev — I  beg  your  pardon,'  said  the  second 
lover.  'This  is  a  surprise.  Do  you  think  you  will 
make  a  good  clergyman's  wife? ' 

"'It'll  never  do,'  said  the  spokesman.  'You  are 
a  professional  beauty,  and  professional  beauties  never 
marry  clergymen.  It  is  n't  done.' 

'"I  am  going  to  do  it,'  she  said. 

"'And,'  said  the  third  lover,  who  was  rich,  'John  's 
poor.' 

"  She  flushed  up  and  said : '  I  'd  marry  him  if  he  had  n't 
a  picayune.' 

"'Then,'  said  the  spokesman,  'it 's  the  real  article.' 

"'Yes,'  she  said  softly,  'it 's  just— Love.' 

"Then  they  all  wished  her  joy  and  went  away. 
When  they  got  outside  the  spokesman  said:  'Well, 
that 's  a  blow  to  my  vanity.  I  'm  six-foot-two,  and 


360  My  Beloved  South 

I  Ve  got  money.  John  Gates  is  a  little  insignificant 
creature,  and,  by  Jove,  she  's  not  only  going  to  marry 
him,  but  she  's  gone  on  him ! ' 

"The  second  lover  said:  'You  can't  count  on  women; 
they  fall  in  love  with  queer  chaps.' 

"The  third  lover  said:  'Have  you  heard  about  Nelly 
Smith?  You  know  she  's  been  a  belle  for  years,  she 
must  be  thirty-five.  The  other  night  Tom  Ridgely 
kissed  her,  and  she  looked  at  him  as  innocent  as  a  baby, 
and  said,  "  Do  you  know  you  are  the  first  man  that  ever 
kissed  me?"  He  said:  "Arfd  you  are  the  first  woman  I 
ever  kissed.  Will  you  marry  me?"  "No,"  she  said, 
"I  don't  want  to  marry  a  liar."  He  said,  "I  don't 
know  that  I  do  either. 

"And,"  I  asked,  "did  the  beauty  ever  marry  the 
preacher?" 

"Oh  yes, "  said  my  friend,  "she  made  a  model  clergy- 
man's wife  and  had  nine  children,  four  beautiful 
daughters  and  five  sons.  For  many  years  she  kept  her 
looks  and  her  extraordinary  charm.  Her  husband  is  a 
bishop  now. " 

"And  what  became  of  Nelly  Smith  and  Tom 
Ridgely?"  I  asked. 

"  They  got  tired  of  being  witty  and  got  married  too, " 
said  my  friend. 

We  walked  a  little  way  down  Franklin  Street,  to  see 
the  old  Lee  mansion,  a  fine  roomy  house  now  occupied 
by  the  Historical  Society.  The  Jewish  tabernacle,  with 
its  great  Moorish  dome,  glistened  in  the  bright  sunlight, 
and  the  long  avenue  of  trees  were  in  their  earliest 
freshest  dress  of  brilliant  spring  green. 

My  friend  said:  "This  street  reminds  me  that 
yesterday  morning  I  met  a  negro  girl  here  who  had 
been  a  former  maid  of  ours  and  had  left  us  to  get 


A  Virginia  Gentleman  361 

married.  I  stopped  her  and  said:  'Howdy,  Jemima; 
is  that  your  baby?'  'Yes  Miss  Mary,  he  's  my  chile.' 
'And  what's  his  name?'  I  asked.  'Hallowed,'  she 
said.  '  Hallowed !  I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  it,'  I  said. 
'  Why,  yes,  you  is,  Miss  Mary,  it 's  tole  us  in  de  Lord's 
Prayer,  "Hallowed  be  Thy  name."  Mary  added, 
'Jemima  had  no  idea  of  irreverence."1 

I  laughed,  and  then  my  memory  wandered  back  to 
poor  little  Joe,  in  Bleak  House,  who,  when  dying, 
faltered,  "Hallowed  be  —Thy— dead." 

"The  light  is  come  upon  the  dark  benighted  way. " 
May  the  light  shine  upon  the  dark  benighted  way  of 
the  little  piccaninny  called  in  reverent  absurdity, 
"Hallowed." 

My  friend  left  me  at  the  door  of  the  Jefferson  hotel, 
where  I  found  Rosewell  Page,  my  good  friend  of  many 
years,  waiting  to  wander  about  with  me  and  show  me 
Richmond  of  the  present.  I  remembered  it  well  in  the 
past,  for  I  spent  three  months  there  as  a  little  girl  with 
Mrs.  Canby,  when  some  years  after  the  war  her 
husband  was  in  command  of  the  military  post.  In  the 
afternoon  the  General  and  I  often  used  to  go  long 
walks  together,  and  he  loved  to  stand  before  the  beauti- 
ful old  Capitol,  whose  noble  architecture  gave  him 
extreme  pleasure. 

"You  see  here,  Betty,"  he  would  say,  "the  result 
of  knowledge.  Jefferson  was  a  good  classical  scholar, 
and  he  suggested  as  a  model  of  the  Capitol  the  maison 
carree  of  Nismes,  an  old  Roman  temple,  and  those 
old  fellows  who  first  made  history  there  lived  them- 
selves up  to  the  tradition  of  Roman  Senators.  At  the 
Constitutional  Convention  of  1829-30,  the  two  former 
Presidents  of  the  United  States,  James  Madison  and 
James  Monroe,  and  one  future  President,  John  Tyler, 


362  My  Beloved  South 

with  Chief -Justice  Marshall,  Philip  Pendleton  Barbour, 
Benjamin  Watkins  Lee,  and  a  number  of  illustrious 
men  framed  laws  for  the  Constitution  of  the  country. 
The  illuminating  idea  of  universal  suffrage  was  born  and 
went  forth  from  behind  those  Ionic  columns." 

Another  point  of  interest  for  us  was  the  equestrian 
statue  of  General  Washington  surrounded  by  his 
famous  advisers — Thomas  Jefferson,  the  author  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence;  Chief -Justice  John  Mar- 
shall, who,  my  father  always  said,  was  almost  the 
greatest  lawyer  that  ever  lived;  Thomas  Nelson,  a 
diplomat  by  instinct,  and  a  force  in  bringing  the  war  of 
the  Revolution  to  a  successful  close ;  Patrick  Henry,  the 
impassioned  orator  and  leader  of  the  Revolution; 
George  Mason,  another  great  jurist  and  the  author  of 
the  Virginia  Bill  of  Rights;  and  Andrew  Lewis,  whom 
General  Washington  considered  a  military  genius. 

"I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Betty,"  General  Canby  said 
regretfully,  "this  war  of  brothers  has  been  one  of  the 
most  terrible  things  in  history.  Politicians  made  it, 
soldiers  fought  and  deplored  it,  but  it  is  something  to 
have  kept  the  Stars  and  Stripes — the  flag  of  Washing- 
ton and  Jefferson — floating  and  inviolate  over  an  un- 
divided Union  to  the  last.  Virginia  has  a  better  right 
to  it  than  anybody  else,  and  she  will  come  back  loyally 
under  its  proud  folds  some  day.  Just  now  she  is  sick 
and  sore,  but  the  grandsons  of  these  brave  Confederate 
soldiers  will  even  rejoice  over  her  defeat.  I  sometimes 
see  an  old  friend  in  the  street  who  refuses  to  speak  to 
me,  but  I  can't  blame  him."  And  the  General  sighed, 
for  he  had  a  tender,  generous  heart,  and  Mrs.  Canby,  a 
Southern  woman,  was  filled  with  grief  over  the  desola- 
tion of  the  South. 

There  was  one  native  Virginian  at  Richmond  who 


A  Virginia  Gentleman  363 

had  no  feeling  against  the  Yankees.  He  was  the  pet 
coon  of  one  of  the  officers  of  General  Canby's  staff,  who 
had  named  him  Aaraaf,  from  Poe's  fantastic  poem  of 
"Al  Aaraaf."  He  used  to  say:  "I  found  him 

" '  High  on  a  mountain  of  enamelTd  head — 
Such  as  the  drowsy  shepherd  on  his  bed 
Of  giant  pasturage,  lying  at  his  ease, 
Raising  his  heavy  eyelids,  starts  and  sees.'" 

He  had  almost  stepped  on  him  while  on  a  hunting 
expedition,  on  the  plateau  of  a  Blue  Ridge  mountain — 
a  little  soft,  fluffy  ball.  He  was  such  an  amiable,  tame 
coon,  a  fat  grey  and  black  beauty.  Not  having  to 
forage  for  food,  and  always  eating  of  the  best — his 
favourite  dish  being  oysters — his  coat  was  beautiful, 
and  his  bright  furtive  eyes,  widely  surrounded  by  black 
circles,  gave  him  quite  a  theatrical  appearance.  The 
wild  animal  had  apparently  been  completely  eliminated 
from  Aaraaf,  and  like  a  dog  he  followed  his  master  all 
over  the  barracks.  If  fortune  ever  smiles  upon  me  and 
my  vision  is  realised  of  a  little  home  in  Virginia,  I,  too, 
will  have  an  Aaraaf. 

It  was  in  Richmond  that  I  first  met  Mrs.  Canby's 
friend,  Mary  Crook,  the  wife  of  General  George  Crook, 
the  famous  fighter  of  the  Indians,  who  stopped  on  her 
way  East  for  a  little  visit,  and  before  she  left  our  life- 
long unbroken  friendship  was  formed,  although  I  did 
not  see  her  again  for  many  years. 

"Where,"  said  Rosewell  Page,  "shall  we  go  first?" 

"To  the  old  Capitol,"  I  said.  "Let  me  refresh  my 
eyes  with  its  unforgotten  stately  beauty." 

"All  right,"  said  Rosewell,  "then  we  will  spend  an 
hour  inside  and  take  a  look  at  the  State  Library. " 

The  statue  of  Washington  by  Houdon,  which  occu- 


364  My  Beloved  South 

pies  the  Rotunda  of  the  State  Capitol,  is  America's 
most  precious  possession.  I  love  the  way  that  Jeffer- 
son wrote  to  the  Virginia  Delegation  of  Congress  after 
he  had  selected  the  sculptor — "  He  is  the  finest  statuary 
of  his  age."  Houdon  was  four  months  at  Mount 
Vernon,  from  October,  1785,  until  January  in  1786, 
consequently  he  had  ample  time  and  opportunity  to 
study  the  face  and  physique  of  Washington,  who  treated 
with  equal  justice  and  courtesy  both  artist  and  states- 
man. He  wrote  in  1785  to  a  friend: 

" In  for  a  penny  on  for  a  pound"  is  an  old  adage.  I  am 
so  hackneyed  to  the  touch  of  the  painter's  pencil  that  I  'm 
now  altogether  at  their  beck,  and  sit  "like  patience  on  a 
monument,"  whilst  they  are  delineating  the  lines  on  my 
face.  It  is  a  proof  among  many  others  of  what  habit  and 
custom  can  accomplish.  At  first  I  was  as  impatient  at  the 
request  and  as  restive  under  the  operation,  as  a  colt  is  of 
the  saddle.  The  next  time  I  submitted  very  reluctantly 
but  with  less  flouncing.  Now,  no  dray  horse  moves  more 
readily  to  the  thills  than  I  to  the  painter's  chair. 

The  figure  is  life-size,  dressed  in  the  Continental 
uniform;  the  hair  is  worn  in  a  queue,  and  the  face  is 
proud,  noble,  and  full  of  benignity  and  sweet  reason- 
ableness. But  the  mouth  has  the  same  firm  grip  of  a 
death  trap  that  I  have  noticed  in  the  mouth  of  Parnell, 
Napoleon,  and  General  Grant,  a  sort  of  tight-shut  final- 
ity of  expression  that  means  "no yielding  here."  The 
figure  is  beautifully  proportioned,  but  the  General  was 
either  slightly  inclined  to  embonpoint,  or  the  waistcoat 
was  ill-fitting.  This  was  probably  the  case,  as  he  sent 
for  his  "cloaths"  to  a  London  tailor,  who  evidently 
had  no  exact  measurement,  as  Washington  wrote  in 
1763- 


A  Virginia  Gentleman  365 

Take  measure  of  a  gentleman  who  wares  well-made 
cloaths  of  the  following  size:  to  wit,  six  feet  high  and  pro- 
portionable made — if  anything,  rather  slender  than  thick 
for  a  person  of  that  height,  with  pretty  long  arms  and 
thighs.  You  will  take  care  to  make  the  breeches  longer 
than  those  you  sent  me  last,  and  I  would  have  you  keep 
the  measure  of  the  cloaths  you  now  make  by  you,  and  if 
any  alteration  is  required  in  my  next  it  shall  be  pointed  out. 

My  Mammy  used  to  say,  Straight  legs  for  a  dandy, 
bowlegs  for  a  cavalry  man,  and  knock-knees  for  nothin'. 
The  General's  legs  were  not  only  those  of  a  "dandy," 
but  were  exquisitely  tapering  and  rounded.  Many  a 
chorus  girl  would  envy  such  a  perfection,  and  the 
breeches  fitted  his  graceful  legs  without  a  wrinkle. 

Facing  the  statue  are  the  busts  of  two  later  Virginia 
soldiers,  General  Fitzhugh  Lee  and  General  J.  E.  B. 
Stuart,  the  musical  soldier  of  the  Confederate  army. 
He  had  a  beautiful  voice,  and  Joe  Swinney,  one  of  his 
soldiers,  used  to  go  often  to  his  tent  and  play  on  his 
banjo  the  accompaniment  of  "Way  down  upon  the 
Suwanee  River"  and  other  popular  Southern  songs  of 
the  day.  He  loved  in  the  twilight  to  sing  "Lorena," 
"Juanita,"  "Maryland,  My  Maryland,"  and  with  his 
soldiers,  "Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee." 

Rosewell  wanted  to  show  me  the  warming  machine 
bought  by  Lord  Bottetourt  when  Governor  of  Virginia, 
as  a  present  to  the  House  of  Representatives.  He 
died  before  it  was  finished,  and  it  was  finally  sent  to 
America  by  his  son,  the  Duke  of  Beaufort.  It  was 
made  in  England  by  Buzalo,  a  famous  stove  maker  with 
artistic  ideals  (for  the  lines  are  good  and  the  stove  is  of 
fine  proportions),  who  was  evidently  an  Italian  or  of 
Italian  extraction. 

"  Now, "  I  said,  "  enough  of  the  past  for  the  moment. 


366  My  Beloved  South 

Let  us  go  and  see  Mr.  Koiner,  the  Commissioner  of 
Agriculture." 

After  our  introduction,  Mr.  Koiner  said:  "I've 
recently  been  in  your  country,  Mrs.  O'Connor,  and 
found  the  English  people  most  hospitable  and  eager  to 
assist  me. " 

"Is  there,"  I  said,  "an  opening  for  all  classes  of 
settlers  in  Virginia,  and  do  you  help  and  advise  them?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Koiner,  "of  course  we  do.  Ask 
Mr.  Page  there  his  experience  of  us. " 

"I  came  one  spring  morning,"  said  Rosewell,  "at 
my  wits'  end  to  find  a  gardener,  and  asked  Mr.  Koiner 
if  he  knew  of  one.  He  said:  'I  've  an  Englishman  who 
has  been  in  the  building  only  five  minutes,  perhaps 
he  will  do.'  I  interviewed  him,  and  ten  minutes  later 
we  had  boarded  a  car  for  Beaver  Dam  and  the  man, 
a  competent  gardener  and  an  excellent  servant,  has 
now  been  with  me  for  four  years.  According  to  my 
Virginian  upbringing  I  use  the  '  broad  A , '  and  he  said 
to  me  on  my  way  to  the  country,  'I  see  you  speak 
Henglish,  sir.'  And  I  think  from  that  moment  he 
approved  of  me. " 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Koiner,  "we  have  plenty  of  room 
here  in  our  land  and  in  our  hearts  for  the  English. " 

"And  why  not?"  said  Rosewell.  "Our  good  begin- 
ning was  from  the  English,  who  settled  Jamestown  over 
three  hundred  years  ago.  The  language  of  the  whole 
American  Republic  is  English,  although  we  are  accused 
by  our  English  cousins  of  speaking  Americanese.  But, 
after  all,  the  home  of  the  English  and  Scotch  is  in  Vir- 
ginia. The  names  our  heroes  bear  are  English;  a 
preponderance  of  our  counties  have  English  names: 
Portsmouth,  Norfolk,  Manchester,  Charlottesville, 
Bristol,  Sussex,  Surrey,  Stafford,  Southampton,  New 


A  Virginia  Gentleman  367 

Kent  County,  King  George  County,  King  and  Queen 
County,  Isle  of  Wight  County,  Chesterfield  County. 
This  very  city  is  named  after  Richmond-on-Thames, 
while  General  Lee's  birthplace  was  Stratford  in  West- 
moreland County. " 

"It 's  all  quite  English,"  I  said,  "but  of  course,  the 
brains,  the  statesmanship,  the  soldiery,  and  the  military 
genius  of  the  Scotch  and  English  of  the  Old  Dominion 
and  their  lineal  descendants  have  made  America  the 
nation  she  is  to-day. " 

Mr.  Koiner  smiled.  "Are  you  a  Virginian?"  he 
asked. 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  am  a  Texan,  but  I  have  a  claim 
upon  Virginia,  for  my  great-grandfather  and  my  grand- 
father were  Virginians.  I  see  that  Richmond  has 
graciously  named  a  street  and  a  place  '  Duval '  in  honour 
of  my  great-grandfather.  But  you,  who  have  studied 
the  question,  tell  me  why  Virginia  offers  the  best 
opportunity  for  the  English  settler  of  to-day?" 

"Well, "  said  Mr.  Koiner,  "for  the  man  who  wants  a 
mild  climate  and  sunshine,  Virginia  gives  the  oppor- 
tunity of  going  out  every  day  in  comfort,  with  none  of 
the  extremes  of  heat  or  cold  that  prevail  in  less  favoured 
localities.  Her  geographical  position  destines  her  to 
become  one  of  the  richest  states  in  the  Union.  Located 
midway  between  the  North  and  the  South,  she  escapes 
the  cold  winters  of  the  North  and  the  hot  summers  of 
the  extreme  South.  And  then  her  soils  are  so  varied; 
they  easily  furnish  blue  grass  and  all  other  pasture 
grasses  for  cattle  and  sheep.  We  are  now  shipping 
direct  from  the  pasture  to  England.  Piedmont  grows 
beautiful  fruit,  and  Albemarle  County  and  Patrick  and 
a  dozen  other  counties  are  famous  for  apples.  Tobacco, 
peanuts,  and  cotton  all  grow  in  Middle  Virginia. " 


368  My  Beloved  South 

"Don't  forget,  Mr.  Koiner, "  said  Rosewell,  "the 
eastern  boundary  of  the  State  where  last  year  the  truck 
farms  made  about  fifteen  million  dollars.  Corn,  wheat, 
and  oats  grow,  of  course,  almost  anywhere  in  the  State, 
and  the  Valley  is  now  taking  prizes  in  every  county 
fair  for  its  fine  apples." 

"And, "  said  Mr.  Koiner,  "one  great  and  inestimable 
advantage  of  Virginia  is  that  the  land  is  so  well  watered. 
No  one  thinks  of  fencing  in  a  field  without  one  or  two 
springs.  On  the  average,  there  are  half  a  dozen  or  more 
springs  on  every  square  mile  in  Virginia.  The  Blue 
Ridge  Mountains,  running  north  and  south  through  the 
entire  State,  bubble  with  mineral  waters  which  have 
not  even  yet  been  fully  developed. " 

Rosewell  said:  "I  am  something  of  a  farmer  and 
know  that  Virginia  can  grow  almost  every  crop.  Stock- 
raising  is  improving,  and  the  breed  of  cattle  and  horses 
is  finer  every  year.  The  long  growing  season  and  the 
kindness  of  the  soil  furnish  natural  grasses  for  the  cattle 
and  that  is  a  great  aid  and  benefit  to  the  farmer. " 

I  got  up  to  go  and  Mr.  Koiner  followed  us  to  the 
Farmers'  Hall  of  Exhibits.  Beautiful  wax  apples  in 
glass  cases,  reproductions  of  the  originals,  were  sus- 
pended from  real  branches.  There  were  splendid 
pyramids  of  perfect  corn,  golden  and  wine-coloured. 
Specimens  of  giant  peanuts.  Monster  sweet  potatoes, 
huge  wax  canteloupes,  and  enormous  watermelons 
weighing  from  thirty  to  fifty  pounds. 

Mr.  Koiner  said,  pointing  to  some  lovely  fruit,  "  Now, 
is  n't  that  branch  of  apples  a  work  of  art  on  the  part  of 
nature?" 

I  replied : "  It  is  indeed ;  but  give  me  the  name  of  some 
particular  Englishman  who  has  succeeded  in  farming  in 
Virginia." 


A  Virginia  Gentleman  369 

"I  will,"  said  Mr.  Koiner,  "give  you  the  names  of 
two — Mr.  James  Bell  wood,  an  Englishman  in  Chester- 
field County,  came  here  from  Canada.  He  is  one  of  the 
leading  farmers  of  the  State  and  owns  three  farms 
amounting  to  about  two  thousand  acres.  He  keeps 
from  eighty  to  a  hundred  head  of  dairy  fowls,  one  of  the 
best  large  herds  in  the  State,  and  he  is  an  energetic, 
wide-awake,  public-spirited  citizen  and  an  authority  on 
agriculture.  He  had  a  special  yield  of  one  hundred 
and  sixty  bushels  of  corn  on  one  acre  last  year,  and  his 
entire  crop  from  eighty  acres  yielded  a  hundred  bushels 
per  acre.  Then  there  is  Mr.  O.  D.  Belding,  a  Scotch- 
man, who  owns  a  farm  of  twenty-five  acres  on  the  James 
River  at  Claremont.  Five  out  of  the  twenty-five  acres 
are  waste  land;  three  are  kept  in  pasture,  and  the  re- 
maining seventeen  are  in  constant  cultivation.  When 
Mr.  Belding  took  this  farm  fifteen  years  ago,  he  was 
without  means  and  was  forced  to  '  hire  out'  a  part  of  his 
first  year  to  meet  current  expenses.  What  this  little 
farm  has  produced  is  best  shown  by  the  buildings  which 
he  has  erected  from  his  profits.  Wait  a  moment,  and  I 
will  go  back  and  get  a  list  from  my  office. " 

"Just  look,"  I  said  to  Rosewell,  "at  that  wonderful 
bird  of  the  forest  the  wild  turkey,  in  this  case.  He 
stands  there  with  his  head  erect  like  an  Indian  warrior, 
and  his  perfect  plumage  is  bronze  in  the  high  lights  and 
black  in  the  shadows,  and  the  broad  tips  of  his  tail  and 
wings  are  opaline,  with  a  satiny  sheen  of  orange,  green, 
purple,  and  white.  Is  n't  he  a  raving  beauty?" 

"You,"  said  Rosewell,  "are  as  enthusiastic  about 
the  wild  turkey  as  Benjamin  Franklin.  You  know  he 
wanted  him  for  our  national  bird  instead  of  the  eagle. " 

"If  ever  I  have  a  home  in  Virginia,"  I  said,  "Mr. 
T.  A.  Green  of  Hemlock  Hill  Farm  in  Michigan  has 


370  My  Beloved  South 

promised  me  half-a-dozen  turkeys.  He  has  a  famous 
breed,  and  one  monarch,  weighing  seventy  pounds,  has 
travelled  to  various  fairs  in  different  States  and  taken 
all  sorts  of  first  prizes. " 

"This,"  said  Mr.  Koiner,  returning,  "is a  list  of  what 
Mr.  Belding  has  built  from  his  profits  " : 

An  excellent  and  convenient  house. 

A  large  barn,  well  arranged  for  stock,  grain,  and  hay. 

Two  good  silos,  one  made  of  cement  blocks. 

A  good  potato  cellar,  with  two-storey  granary  above  it. 

A  good  tool  shed,  automobile  house,  and  a  corn  crib. 

A  large  wood-house  and  a  large  coal-frame. 

"He  has  also  purchased  the  following  machinery" : 

Ensilage  cutter,  5  h-  p.  gasoline  engine,  small  threshing 

machine. 

Acme  riding  barrow,  potato  planter,  cream  separator. 
Sulky  plough,  buggy,  automobile,  and  other  implements. 

"  He  has  made  an  average  crop  of  six  tons  per  acre  in 
alfalfa,  and  his  corn  crop  always  averages  one  hundred 
bushels  per  acre  and  has  gone  as  high  as  one  hundred 
and  fifty.  This  shows  what  can  be  done  on  a  small 
Virginia  farm." 

"I  should  like,"  I  said,  "to  meet  Mr.  Belding. 
Good-bye,  and  thank  you  for  all  your  information. " 

"Here  is  a  hand-book  of  Virginia, "  said  Mr.  Koiner. 
"  Don't  forget  that  we  will  give  you  a  warm  welcome  if 
you  settle  among  us,  that  the  soil  is  kind,  the  people 
kinder,  and  that  with  a  good  manager  you  can  prosper 
on  a  little  farm  near  a  market. " 

"Now,"  said  Rosewell,  "just  take  a  peep  in  at  the 
State  library,  where  you  will  see  a  Caxton  in  good 
condition,  bound  in  cowhide  and  horn.  And  there  are 


A  Virginia  Gentleman  371 

some  portraits  that  will  interest  you.  One  is  of 
Governor  Alexander  Spottswood,  who  led  an  exploring 
party  beyond  the  Blue  Ridge,  mounted  on  the  first 
horses  shod  in  Virginia.  On  his  return  he  dubbed  them 
'Knights  of  the  golden  horseshoes,'  and  presented  each 
one  with  a  horseshoe  of  gold  as  a  memento  of  the 
expedition. " 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "and  how  charmingly  Mary  John- 
stone  uses  that  incident  in  Audrey. " 

Then  we  looked  at  the  portraits  of  the  Earl  of  Dun- 
more,  Thomas  Jefferson,  and  Rochambeau.  I  remem- 
bered seeing  as  a  child  an  old  portrait  of  Pocahontas, 
and  I  asked  the  custodian  where  it  hung.  He  led  us  to 
it,  saying,  "Here  she  is  in  her  court  dress."  But  the 
costume,  a  brilliant  jacket  of  silk  and  velvet,  with  a 
lace  collar  and  a  high  hat,  is  for  the  morning.  The 
picture  was  copied  in  1891  by  W.  L.  Shepherd,  the 
original  being  in  possession  of  the  Reverend  Whitwall 
Elwin,  rector  of  a  Boston  parish,  and  a  writer  and 
editor  of  repute.  He  told  Mr.  Shepherd  that  no  ques- 
tion as  to  the  authenticity  of  the  portrait  had  ever  been 
raised.  There  is  documentary  proof  of  its  having  been 
in  charge  of  that  branch  of  the  Rolfe  connection  since 
1730.  The  physiological  evidence  is  convincing;  the 
high  cheek  bones,  the  nose  with  the  broad  base,  the 
suggestion  of  the  stolidity  of  her  race,  are  conclusive 
proofs  of  its  having  been  taken  from  life.  The  com- 
plexion is  considerably  lighter  than  that  of  the  North 
American  Indian  as  we  know  him,  and  the  hands  arc 
much  lighter  in  colour  than  the  face.  The  picture 
records  that  she  was  "^Etatis  May  27,  1616,  Matoaks 
als  Rebekkah,  daughter  to  the  mighty  Prince  Powhatan, 
Emperor  of  Attanoughkomouk,  als  Virginia,  converted 
and  baptised  in  the  Christian  faith,  and  wife  to  the 


372  My  Beloved  South 

Hon'll  Mr.  Thos.  Rolfe — from  the  original  of  Boston 
Rectory,  Norfolk,  England."  The  Parish  Register  of 
Gravesend  Church,  England,  has  also  this  entry: 
"  Rebecca  Wrolfe,  wyffe  of  Thos.  Wrolfe  Gen.  a  Virginia 
lady  born ;  was  buried  in  ye  chancel. "  What  a  singular 
thing  that  the  mistake  should  have  been  made,  of  calling 
her  husband  Thomas  instead  of  John. 

But  in  all  the  library  nothing  interested  or  touched 
me  so  much  as  a  neatly- written,  gracious  letter  of  Poe's : 

PHILADELPHIA,  March  24,  1843. 
MY  DEAR  SIR  : 

With  this  letter  I  mail  to  your  address  a  number  of  the 
Philadelphia  Saturday  Museum,  containing  a  Prospectus  of 
The  Stylus,  a  Magazine  which  I  design  to  commence  on 
the  first  of  July  next,  in  connection  with  Mr.  Thomas  C. 
Clark,  of  this  city. 

My  object  in  addressing  you  is  to  ascertain  if  the  list  of 
The  South  :  Lit :  Messenger  is  to  be  disposed  of,  and  if  so, 
upon  what  terms.  We  are  anxious  to  purchase  the  list 
and  unite  it  with  that  of  The  Stylus  provided  a  suitable 
arrangement  can  be  made.  I  shall  be  happy  to  hear  from 
you  upon  the  subject. 

I  hear  of  you  occasionally,  and  most  sincerely  hope  that 
you  are  doing  well.  Mrs.  Clemm  and  Virginia  desire  to  be 
remembered  to  our  old  acquaintances. 

Believe  me, 

Yours  truly, 

EDGAR  A.  POE. 

The  handwriting  is  rather  small,  clear,  steady,  grace- 
ful, with  no  slightest  indication  of  nervousness  or  hesi- 
tancy. I  stood  looking  a  long  time  at  it,  and  Rosewell 
said,  "Are  you  a  student  of  Poe?" 

"  I  cannot  call  myself  a  student  of  anything, "  I  said, 
1  but  I  love  Poe.  What  a  pity  that  he  lived  in  the 


A  Virginia  Gentleman  373 

wrong  generation !  He  was  one  of  those  restless  spirits, 
too  eager  to  be  born,  of  whom  Maeterlinck  gives  us  a 
glimpse.  Southerners  at  that  period  lived  intensely; 
they  loved,  they  suffered,  they  were  part  of  a  romantic 
era,  their  lives  were  lives  of  self-sacrifice  and  self-control. 
A  divorce  was  a  rare  thing.  Their  personal  experiences 
and  those  of  their  neighbours  satisfied  their  longing  for 
romance.  And  Poe,  with  the  impassioned  pen  of  a 
divine  genius  to  inspire  his  immortal  imagination,  came 
upon  us  too  soon.  If  he  had  only  lived  now,  we  would 
have  appreciated  and  enriched  him.  I  once  saw  the  old 
house  in  Stoke  Newington  where  he  went  to  school,  and 
I  have  a  beautiful  portrait  of  him.  Like  his  "gallant 
knight, "  I  have  often  searched  long  and  wearily  for  the 
"  mountains  of  the  Moon. "  Do  you  remember? 
"Oh  yes, "  said  Rosewell,  who  remembers  everything. 

"Gaily  bedight, 
A  gallant  knight, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shadow, 
Had  journeyed  long, 
Singing  a  song, 
In  search  of  El  Dorado. 

"  But  he  grew  old — 
This  knight  so  bold— 
And  o'er  his  heart  a  shadow 
Fell,  as  he  found 
No  spot  of  ground 
That  looked  like  El  Dorado. 

"  And  as  his  strength 
Failed  him  at  length, 
He  met  a  pilgrim  shadow — 
'Shadow,'  said  he, 
'Where  can  it  be — 
This  land  of  El  Dorado? ' 


374  My  Beloved  South 

"  '  Over  the  mountains 
Of  the  Moon, 

Down  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 
Ride,  boldly  ride,' 
The  shade  replied, 
'If  you  seek  for  El  Dorado.'" 

I  said,  "Over  my  heart  truly  there  's  a  shadow. " 

"Then,"  said  Rosewell,  "come  to  Beaver  Dam  and 
we  will  try  to  lift  it. " 

"I  will  come,"  I  said,  "in  September,  when  the 
leaves  are  turned  to  gold  and  scarlet. " 

"Now,"  he  announced,  "we  must  have  some  lunch, 
and  afterwards  we  will  go  and  see  St.  John's  Church." 

We  lunched  at  the  Westmoreland  Club.  I  ordered 
soft  shell  crabs,  and  Rosewell  bacon  and  greens. 

"I  suppose,"  I  said,  "you  do  it  in  honour  of  that 
delightful  story  by  Bagby  in  The  Old  Virginia  Gentleman. 
What  a  fascinating  book  his  sketches  have  made,  and 
so  well  set  forth  by  the  appreciative  foreword  of  Tom 
Page." 

St.  John's  Church,  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  pic- 
turesque in  Richmond,  has  the  original  pews  with  the 
high  backs  lowered.  The  irregular  hinges  wrought  by 
hand,  and  the  nails  on  the  exterior  of  the  church  with 
brass  heads  half  an  inch  broad,  are  ruggedly  decorative. 
The  church  was  finished  in  1741,  and  later  was  en- 
larged. It  was  in  this  church,  at  the  famous  Conven- 
tion of  1775,  when  war  clouds  were  gathering  for  the 
Revolution,  that  Patrick  Henry  made  his  great  speech 
ending  with,  "  I  know  not  what  course  others  may  take, 
but  as  for  me,  give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death. " 

Not  relying  on  my  sieve-like  memory,  I  said  to  Rose- 
well,  "He  was  the  gentleman  who  made  that  speech, 
was  n't  he?" 


A  Virginia  Gentleman  375 

"He  certainly  was,"  said  Rosewell,  "and  George 
Washington,  Edmund  Pendleton,  Thomas  Jefferson, 
Richard  Henry  Lee,  known  in  history  as  '  Light  Horse 
Harry,'  and  Edward  Carrington,  fired  with  patriotic 
enthusiasm,  wildly  applauded  his  passionate  outburst." 

"Did  you,"  I  said,  "ever  hear  of  the  schoolmaster 
who  gave  for  a  subject  of  composition  to  his  history 
class  the  name  of  Patrick  Henry?  One  small  boy, 
finishing  before  the  others,  handed  in  this  effort: 
'Patrick  Henry  was  tall,  with  fair  hair,  blue  eyes  and 
straight  legs,  he  had  a  loud  voice  and  got  married,  then 
he  said  "  Give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death  !"  '  " 

"I  hope,"  said  Rosewell,  "the  small  boy  didn't 
grow  up  to  prove  his  premises.  But,  sorry  as  I  am,  no 
more  churches  or  sight-seeing  for  me  to-day.  A  tree 
surgeon  from  the  Agricultural  Department  is  waiting 
for  me  at  Beaver  Dam.  I  '11  put  you  in  a  car  for  your 
hotel,  and  if  you  stay  over  to-morrow,  let  me  know." 

On  my  way  to  the  Jefferson  I  read  the  Handbook  of 
Virginia,  with  lovely  pictures  of  country  homes,  fat 
sheep,  and  splendid  Clydesdale  draught  horses,  with 
great  fringed  feet,  and  whiskers  on  their  noses;  mounds 
of  Albemarle  pippins  and  acres  of  alfalfa  (Captain  Jack's 
three-hundred-acre  alfalfa  field  in  King  George  County 
sold  for  eighteen  thousand  dollars  in  1909).  Great 
fields  of  wide-leafed  tobacco,  and  warehouses  filled 
with  it.  And  a  farm  with  acres  of  ground  covered  with 
plump,  snowy  white  ducks,  from  which  sixty  thousand 
ducks  were  sold  in  one  year.  I  turned  next  to  the 
letters,  specimens  of  which  I  give  as  they  stand. 

The  first  is  from  a  Scotchman: 

In  the  short  time  I  have  been  in  Virginia,  some  of  the 
impressions  I  have  formed  arc  of  the  great  number  of  farms 


37^  My  Beloved  South 

empty.  The  low  prices  asked  for  them  (low  when  com- 
pared to  Scotland),  the  railway  facilities  for  market  produce, 
and  the  good  water  on  almost  all  the  farms  I  have  been  on. 
Potatoes,  beans,  peas,  poultry,  butter,  find  ready  sale  at 
good  prices ;  all  the  crops  grown  at  home  can  be  grown  here ; 
Indian  corn,  tobacco,  sweet  potatoes,  etc.,  in  addition,  and 
the  residents  with  good  schools  and  churches  are  very  or- 
derly and  law-abiding. 

W.  McKm. 
Box  6,  Pemplin  City,  Fa. 

A  second  is  from  a  Dane : 

It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  add  my  testimonial  to  the 
excellent  climate  and  almost  uniformly  productiveness  of 
Virginia  soil.  Being  born  and  raised  on  a  farm  in  Denmark, 
I  determined  to  locate  in  America.  After  going  through 
Canada,  and  many  States  of  the  Union,  especially  the 
Western  and  North- Western,  I  at  last  located  in  Virginia, 
where  I  have  been  domiciled  some  38  years,  and  have,  to  this 
date,  not  regretted  the  choice  I  made.  Too  much  cannot 
be  said  of  the  excellence  of  its  climate,  being  neither  too 
cold  nor  too  warm ;  the  soil  being  adaptable  to  almost  any- 
thing that  grows. 

WM.  HOLSTS. 

Richmond,  Va. 

A  third  is  appreciative  of  Virginia: 

Two  years  ago  I  came  to  Virginia  for  the  purpose  of 
finding  out  whether  what  I  read  about  Virginia  was  true 
or  not,  before  I  moved  my  family,  and  I  saw  and  heard 
enough  to  convince  me  that  it  was,  so  I  returned  to  Canada 
and  made  a  sale  and  came  the  year  after,  and  we  all  liked 
it;  the  climate  is  delightful,  the  season  to  get  one's  work 
done  is  a  long  one,  the  land  is  as  good  as  any  I  have  worked 
or  seen  in  Canada,  if  properly  handled,  and  I  was  from  the 
best  farming  and  dairying  section  in  Elgin  County,  Ontario, 


A  Virginia  Gentleman 


377 


and  was  doing  well  there;  but  I  wanted  a  home  where  I 
could  live  in  comfort  with  a  warmer  climate  and  do  the 
same  as  I  did  in  Canada,  and  I  find  I  can  do  it  here. 

Yours,  etc., 

J.  E.  MARTIN. 
Ashland,  Va. 

A  fourth  is  more  than  encouraging: 

My  farm  comprises  only  twenty-four  acres,  and  from 
this  modest  area  must  be  excluded  eight  acres  of  intractable 
ravine,  of  which  I  make  a  limited  use  as  pasture,  my  farming 
operations  being  devoted  to  the  remaining  sixteen  acres 
which  are  under  cultivation.  The  use  of  certain  portions 
of  this  land  for  a  second  crop  makes  the  annual  ploughing 
area  on  an  average,  twenty  acres.  During  the  past  year 
my  book  shows  the  following  results: 

300  bushels  of  Irish  potatoes $  180.00 

50  bushels  of  sweet  potatoes 25.00 

Beans  and  black  peas 25.00 

Early  cabbage 75-°° 

Garden  peas 40.00 

Snap  beans 40.00 

Apples 25.00 

Cider  vinegar 125.00 

Milk  and  butter  from  4  cows 210.00 

Live  animals 62.40 

Slaughtered  animals 25.00 

looo  Ibs.  honey,  15  Ibs.  wax,  from  n 

hives 82.40 

Surplus  eggs 74° 

Surplus  asparagus 10.00 

Hay 7240 


Total 


$1004.60 


These  sales  were  made  after  full  provision  for  the  support 
of  three  horses,  four  milch  cows,  and  some  smaller  stock, 


378  My  Beloved  South 

including  calves,  pigs,  and  chickens.  The  farm  pays  full 
tribute  to  the  home  table,  and  only  surplus  is  sold.  We 
have  the  usual  garden  space  which  supplies  us  with  a  va- 
riety of  vegetables  and  fruits  for  home  use,  which  are  not 
included  in  the  list  of  money  crops.  My  expenses  I  com- 
pute at  about  $250.00  for  labour,  fertiliser,  wheat,  bran  for 
cows,  and  for  interest  on  original  investment  and  taxes  and 
insurance. 

Farms  such  as  the  above  can  be  bought  now  from  $10.00 
to  $20.00  per  acre  in  near  vicinity  to  the  railroad. 

A  thousand  pounds  of  honey — how  delicious  it 
sounds  !  What  industrious  bees  to  make  it!  What 
acres  of  sweet  flowers  they  must  have  robbed  with  all 
their  humming  industry !  I  think,  after  all,  if  I  were 
choosing  for  myself,  I  should  like  to  have  a  fruit  farm ; 
the  joy  would  begin  with  the  blossoms  and  the  sun- 
shine and  the  bees. 

Apples  [the  Handbook  says]  may  be  said  to  be  the  prin- 
cipal fruit  crop  of  the  State.  They  are  extensively  grown, 
and  there  is  a  yearly  increasing  number  of  trees  planted. 
In  one  of  the  Valley  counties,  a  seventeen-year-old  orchard 
of  1150  trees  produced  an  apple  crop  which  brought  the 
owner  $10,000  Another  of  fifty  twenty-year-old  trees 
brought  $700.  Mr.  H.  E.  Vandeman,  one  of  the  best 
known  horticulturists  in  the  country  says  there  is  not  in 
all  North  America  a  better  place  to  plant  orchards  than  in 
Virginia.  "For  rich  apple  soil,  good  flavour,  and  keeping 
qualities  of  the  fruit,  and  nearness  to  the  great  markets 
of  the  East  and  Europe,  your  country  is  wonderfully 
favoured." 

The  trees  attain  a  fine  size  and  live  to  a  good  old  age, 
and  produce  most  abundantly.  In  Patrick  County, 
there  is  a  tree,  nine  feet  five  inches  in  circumference, 


A  Virginia  Gentleman  379 

which  has  borne  no  bushels  of  apples  at  a  single  crop. 
And  there  are  other  trees  which  have  borne  even  more. 
One  farmer  in  Albemarle  County  has  received  more  than 
$15,000  for  a  single  crop  of  Albemarle  pippins  grown 
on  twenty  acres  of  land.  This  pippin  is  considered  the 
most  deliciously  flavoured  apple  in  the  world.  Sixty 
years  ago,  the  Hon.  Andrew  Stevenson  of  Albemarle, 
when  Ambassador  from  this  country  to  England,  pre- 
sented a  barrel  of  Albemarle  pippins  to  Queen  Victoria, 
and  from  that  day  to  this  it  is  said  to  be  the  favourite 
apple  in  the  Royal  Household.  And  land  in  Patrick 
County,  where  the  giant  apple  tree  has  produced  no 
bushels  of  apples,  is  sold  from  six  to  eight  dollars  an 
acre.  Air,  water,  land,  corn,  fruit,  home,  contentment, 
all  to  be  had  for  a  song — and  yet  people  are  hungry  and 
starving  in  congested  cities  all  over  the  world.  There 
is  mismanagement  somewhere.  I  should  like  to  be  a 
Commissioner  of  Immigration. 

The  day  was  not  half  over  when  I  got  back  to  the 
Jefferson  Hotel,  so  I  decided  to  do  a  little  more  sight- 
seeing, and  I  asked  the  porter  to  direct  me  to  the  Con- 
federate Museum.  He  said:  "Walk  down  one  block, 
then  turn  to  the  right  and  walk  three  blocks,  turn  to  the 
left,  go  straight  down  Franklin  Street,  then  cross  over 
and  walk  a  block  and  a  half,  turn  to  the  left,  and  take 
the  car  to  the  museum."  And  I,  with  a  hole  in  my 
head  for  locality ! 

As  I  stood  helplessly  and  hopelessly  on  the  steps, 
looking  vaguely  down  the  street,  I  noticed  a  gentleman 
standing  in  a  very  leisurely  attitude.  He  had  a  charm- 
ing, rather  delicate  face,  a  composite  likeness  of  John 
Ridgely  Carter,  that  clever  diplomat,  and  Edgar  Allan 
Poe.  I  quickly  decided  it  was  the  face  of  a  man  who 
could  unravel  a  tangled  skein,  so  I  said:  "I  beg  your 


380  My  Beloved  South 

pardon,  but  the  porter  here,  who  I  should  say  would  be 
excellent  at  riddles,  has  just  given  me  these  directions 
for  the  car  which  will  take  me  to  the  Confederate 
Museum.  He  said:  'Walk  down  one  block,  then  turn 
to  the  right  and  walk  three  blocks,  turn  to  the  left,  go 
straight  down  Franklin  Street,  then  cross  over  and  walk 
a  block  and  a  half,  and  turn  to  the  left.'  Can  you  tell 
me  whether,  if  I  don't  get  lost,  I  shall  eventually  find 
that  car?" 

He  took  off  his  hat,  listening  with  his  head  uncovered. 
Then  he  said,  smiling:  "I  am  going  in  that  direction 
myself.  If  you  will  permit  me  I  will  show  you  the  way." 

We  both  started  off,  a  little  shy,  although  I  think  my 
grey  hair  gave  him  confidence  in  the  situation  (I  know 
it  did  me)  and  I  said:  "I  'm  disappointed  that  Rosewell 
Page  is  not  with  me.  He  had  to  go  back  to  the 
country.  The  Agricultural  Department  is  going  to  be 
at  his  place  this  afternoon,  to  fill  holes  in  his  trees." 

"Oh,"  said  the  gentleman,  "I  know  Rosewell  Page, 
so  I  think  I  may  introduce  myself  to  you  as  Mr.  Page's 
friend,  James  Dunn.  We  both  went  to  the  University 
of  Virginia,  although  my  term  was  later,  but  still  I  know 
him,  as  everybody  in  Virginia  knows  everybody  else." 

Then  I  introduced  myself  as  Rosewell  Page's  other 
friend,  and  we  were  quite  comfortable  and  chatty 
together.  When  the  car  appeared  I  asked,  "Does  the 
car  go  past  the  Museum,  or  do  I  get  out  and  zigzag 
about  until  I  find  it?" 

He  said,  "There  is  a  corner,  so  I  had  better  see  you 
safely  to  the  entrance. 

When  we  arrived,  I  said,  "This  is  not  my  Museum, 
it  is  yours.  Is  it  my  place  to  invite  you  in?" 

And  he  replied,  "If  you  do,  of  course  I  will  come  in," 
which  he  did. 


A  Virginia  Gentleman  381 

This  small  Confederate  Museum  is  the  most  intensely 
human,  touching,  and  appealing  reliquary  in  all  the 
world;  certainly  it  is  to  the  people  of  the  South,  for 
there  hangs  in  the  big  case  General  Lee's  shabby  grey 
coat,  braided  in  gold,  with  three  stars  on  the  collar.  It 
has  such  a  look  of  friendliness  about  it,  that  I  wanted 
to  put  my  hand  gently  on  the  empty  sleeve.  Beside  it 
hangs  the  little  tin  cup  he  carried  with  him  all  through 
the  war,  which  surely  gave  a  draught  of  comfort  to 
more  than  one  wounded  and  dying  soldier.  Many 
silver  beakers  were  sent  to  him  from  various  admirers, 
but  in  preference  to  them  all,  he  carried  the  plain  cup  of 
the  ordinary  everyday  private. 

I  said,  "What  a  truly  god-like  man  he  was!" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Dunn: 

" '  Defeat  but  made  him  tower  grandly  high — 
Sackcloth  about  him  was  transformed  to  gold 

The  winds  may  rage,  the  frightened  clouds  be  driven, 

Like  multitudinous  banners,  torn  and  tossed, 

Retreating  from  some  conflict  lost. 

But  far  beyond  all  shapes  and  sound  of  ill 

That  star — his  soul — is  shining  calmly  still, 

The  steadfast  splendour  in  a  stormy  heaven.' " 

Perhaps,  after  the  relics  of  General  Lee,  the  most 
romantic  object  in  the  Museum  is  a  Florida  flag,  which 
floated  over  a  regiment  through  the  whole  four  years  of 
that  terrible  war.  It  looks  as  if  it  might  have  been 
used  by  Galahad,  or  Percivale,  or  Launcelot.  Kin^r 
Arthur  himself  would  not  have  disdained  so  beautiful 
a  banner.  It  is  a  very  old,  heavily  embroidered,  red 
cre"pe  shawl,  the  red  being  somehow  of  the  most  omin- 
ous hue,  as  though  it  had  been  dyed  in  blood.  The 


382  My  Beloved  South 

staff  of  the  flag  is  a  long  ebony  golden-headed  cane, 
one  of  those  used  in  the  time  of  Marie  Antoinette,  and 
the  beaten  circles  which  attach  the  shawl  to  it  are  heavy, 
hand-made  gold  rings,  carved  by  a  local  jeweller  out  of 
melted  breast-pins,  rings,  and  bracelets,  given  by  the 
women  of  the  Land  of  Flowers.  Surely  there  is  no  flag 
in  modern  times  like  this  ragged,  bullet-pierced,  blood- 
stained, embroidered  bit  of  silk. 

Another  larger  flag  with  the  stars  of  the  Confederacy 
and  the  broad  red-and-white  bars  had  furled  itself  in 
heavy  folds  around  the  staff,  and  seemed  to  be  the  veri- 
table Conquered  Banner  of  Father  Ryan : 

"Furl  that  Banner,  for  't  is  weary; 
Round  its  staff  't  is  drooping  dreary; 
Furl  it,  fold  it,  it  is  best ; 
For  there  's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there  's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there  's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it; 
Furl  it,  hide  it — let  it  rest! 

Take  that  Banner  down!  't  is  tattered; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered ; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered 
Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh !  't  is  hard  for  us  to  fold  it ; 
Hard  to  think  there  's  none  to  hold  it; 
Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it 
Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 

Furl  that  Banner!     Furl  it  sadly, 
Once  ten  thousand  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousand  wildly,  madly, 
Swore  it  should  for  ever  wave; 


A  Virginia  Gentleman  383 

Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever 
Till  that  flag  should  float  for  ever 
O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave! 

Furl  it !     For  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 
Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low; 
And  that  banner — it  is  trailing! 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 
Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 
For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it! 
Love  the  cold  dead  hands  that  bore  it! 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it ! 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it! 
But,  oh!  wildly  they  deplore  it, 
Now  who  furl  and  fold  it  so. 

Furl  that  Banner!     True,  't  is  gory, 
Yet  't  is  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  't  will  live  in  song  and  story 
Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust; 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages — 
Furl  its  folds,  though  now  we  must. 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly! 
Treat  it  gently — it  is  holy — 
For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not — unfold  it  never- 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  for  ever, 
For  its  people's  hopes  are  dead ! 

Now  a  younger  generation  have  grown  up,  hopeful, 
prosperous,  and  forgiving,  and  the  "Conquered  Banner" 
is  but  to  them  a  cherished  poem. 


384  My  Beloved  South 

In  another  case  there  was  a  big  wax  doll,  with  china 
blue  eyes,  which  originally  must  have  been  a  beauty, 
but  her  hair  is  very  thin  now  and  all  the  paint  on  her 
face  has  been  kissed  away  by  appreciative  adorers.  A 
little  tag  pinned  on  her  stiffly  starched  calico  sleeve 
states  that  she  was  sent  from  Leamington,  England,  to 
a  Virginia  child  in  1863  and  that  many  children  at  this 
time  had  never  seen  a  doll  and  they  were  brought  miles 
to  gaze  longingly  upon  this  celebrated  English  beauty. 

When  we  left  the  Museum  Mr.  Dunn  proposed  that 
we  should  take  tea  with  his  sister-in-law,  the  wife  of 
Dr.  Dunn,  and  at  the  same  time  I  could  see  West's 
pictures  of  Shelley.  Mrs.  Dunn,  a  very  charming 
woman,  was  luckily  at  home,  and  received  me  most 
kindly,  and  her  brother-in-law,  the  Virginia  gentleman 
— and  a  true  gentleman  can  always  rely  upon  his  judg- 
ment and  instinct — was  quite  equal  to  the  occasion. 
With  authority  he  presented  me  as  "  My  friend,  Mrs. 
O'Connor, "  and  though  I  wanted  to  laugh  at  his  daring, 
from  that  moment  we  were  friends. 

A  link  between  the  old  world  and  the  new  is  an  au- 
thentic portrait  of  Shelley  which  hangs  on  the  drawing- 
room  wall  of  a  house  in  Richmond,  together  with  the 
sketch  from  life  which  in  the  first  place  inspired  the  por- 
trait. The  canvas  used  is  only  eight  by  nine  inches  in 
size.  The  portrait  was  painted  by  Edward  West,  at 
that  time  a  young,  handsome  artist  himself,  and  was 
evidently  executed  in  spontaneous  admiration .  The  full , 
soft,  brown  hair  is  pushed  back  from  a  high,  intellectual 
forehead,  the  eyebrows  are  well  marked,  and  the  bril- 
liant blue  eyes,  expressive  of  youthful  hope  and  an 
ardent  temperament,  are  beautifully  set  in  the  head. 
The  face,  a  pure,  long  oval,  with  a  delicate  nose,  tenderly 
moulded  mouth,  and  strong  chin,  is  that  of  a  man  in  the 


A  Virginia  Gentleman  385 

very  heyday  of  his  youth — happy  and  probably  full  of 
enjoyment  of  his  new,  but  ill-fated  sailing  boat,  that 
"perfect  plaything  for  the  summer,"  which,  like  many 
perfect  playthings,  produced  a  sad  tragedy. 

The  Shelleys  and  their  friends  the  Williams  were 
living  at  Lerice,  while  Byron  was  at  Montenero,  where 
West  was  painting  his  portrait.  Shelley,  who  probably 
sailed  over  from  Lerice,  appeared  one  afternoon,  and 
Byron,  all  cordiality,  seated  him  facing  West's  easel,  and 
the  three  remained  in  interesting  conversation  for  more 
than  an  hour.  During  a  momentary  rest  from  Byron's 
picture,  West  was  so  impressed  by  Shelley's  radiant 
personality  that  he  slyly  made  an  accurate  sketch  of 
him.  When  Byron  saw  it,  he  thought  it  an  excellent 
likeness,  and  West  then  and  there  determined  to  use  the 
sketch  for  a  portrait,  which  he  subsequently  did.  The 
artist  said:  "Never  have  I  seen  a  face  so  expressive  of 
ineffable  goodness;  its  benignity  and  intelligence  were 
only  shadowed  by  a  certain  sadness  as  one  upon  whom 
life  pressed  keenly,  at  touching  variance  with  the  youth 
indicated  by  his  contour  and  movements." 

Subsequently,  on  the  first  of  July,  Leigh  Hunt, 
Byron,  Shelley,  and  West  spent  some  days  together  at 
Pisa.  Here  it  is  most  probable  that  the  artist  began 
the  portrait.  The  original  pencil  sketch  is  made  on  a 
fine  quality  of  drawing-paper  seven  inches  by  eight,  and 
this  is  the  inscription:  "Sketch  of  Percy  B.  Shelley  by 
William  West,  taken  at  Villa  Rossa,  near  Leghorn,  in 
1822,  and  thought  by  Byron  to  be  a  good  likeness. " 

West  was  a  quiet,  modest  man,  a  lover  of  poetry  and 
a  true  artist.  Shelley's  joyous  youth  and  wonderful 
personality  had  made  an  indelible  impression  upon  him. 
He  never  tried  to  dispose  of  the  portrait,  and  at  his 
death  it  was  left  to  a  member  of  his  family,  and  is 

2$ 


386  My  Beloved  South 

now,  with  his  fine  picture  of  Judith,  owned  by  Dr. 
Dunn. 

When  we  left  the  house  and  resumed  our  pleasant 
walk,  my  new  friend  said  to  me : 

"  Of  course  it  was  n't  only  to  show  you  West's  picture 
that  I  carried  you  off  to  my  brother's  house.  I  wanted 
you  to  see  the  sponsors  for  my  respectability. " 

"And  what, "  I  said,  "of  my  sponsors?  They  are  all 
faraway." 

He  replied  gallantly,  "You  are  a  lady.  You  need 
none." 

Could  Lord  Chesterfield  have  done  better  than  this 
modern  young  Virginia  gentleman? 

It  is  strange  how  such  a  thing  happened  to  me,  being 
generally  impervious  to  chills,  but  I  developed  a  severe 
cold  in  Richmond,  which  cut  short  my  visit  and  sent 
me  to  Washington  to  Bee.  In  the  midst  of  my  eloquent 
description  of  Mr.  Dunn  she  asked,  "You  did  n't  just 
speak  to  him  on  the  hotel  steps?  " 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  did.  You  see,  if  you  are  a 
grandmother,  and  the  man 's  a  gentleman,  it 's  perfectly 
permissible.  No  woman  knows  true  joy  and  independ- 
ence until  she  's  a  grandmother!  I  wish  I  had  been 
the  mother  of  many  children  and  grandchildren.  But, 
after  all,  adopted  daughters  are  quite  satisfactory.  I 
have  hurried  from  Richmond  just  to  have  you  take 
care  of  me." 

Bee,  with  the  beautiful  look  in  her  eyes,  said,  "You 
know  I  '11  do  that,  Swizzlegigs. " 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A    BRAVE    LADY 

"She  is  dead,  you  say,  master?" 
"Yes." 

"And  did  you  know  her?" 

"I  knew  her  well.  She  had  the  face  of  a  primrose,  the  heart  of  a 
child,  the  love  of  a  woman,  and  the  loyalty  of  a  man. " 

A  LTHOUGH  Becky  Sharp  plays  her  part  so  en- 
/i  trancingly  in  Vanity  Fair  that  she  overshadows 
every  other  character  in  the  book,  except,  perhaps,  poor 
Rawdon  Crawley,  the  scene  between  Mrs.  O'Dowd  and 
the  Major  the  night  before  the  battle  of  Waterloo  is  not 
easily  forgotten. 

"  I  'd  like  ye  to  wake  me  about  half-an-hour  before  the 
assembly  beats,"  the  major  said  to  his  lady.  "Call  me  at 
half-past  one,  Peggy  dear,  and  see  me  things  is  ready. 
Maybe  I  '11  not  come  back  to  breakfast,  Mrs.  O'D."  With 
which  words,  which  signified  his  opinion  that  the  regiment 
would  march  the  next  morning,  the  Major  ceased  talking 
and  fell  asleep. 

Mrs.  O'Dowd,  the  good  housewife,  arrayed  in  curl 
papers  and  a  camisole,  felt  that  her  duty  was  to  act  and 
not  to  sleep  at  this  juncture.  "Time  enough  for  that," 
she  said,  "  when  Mick  's  gone."  And  so  she  packed  his 
travelling  valise  ready  for  the  march,  brushed  his  cloak, 
his  hat,  and  other  warlike  habiliments,  set  them  out  in 
order  for  him,  and  stowed  away  in  the  coat  pockets  a  light 

387 


388  My  Beloved  South 

package  of  portable  refreshments,  and  a  wicker  covered 
flask  or  pocket  pistol,  containing  near  a  pint  of  a  remark- 
ably sound  Cognac  brandy  of  which  she  and  the  Major 
approved  very  much;  and  as  soon  as  the  hands  of  "the 
repayther  "  pointed  to  half-past  one,  and  its  interior  ar- 
rangements (it  had  a  tone  quite  equal  to  a  cathaydral,  its 
fair  owner  considered)  knelled  forth  that  fatal  hour,  Mrs. 
O'Dowd  woke  up  her  Major,  and  had  as  comfortable  a  cup 
of  coffee  prepared  for  him  as  any  maid  that  morning  in 
Brussels.  .  .  .  The  consequence  was,  that  the  Major 
appeared  on  parade  quite  trim,  fresh,  and  alert,  his  well- 
shaved  rosy  countenance,  as  he  sat  on  horseback,  giving 
cheerfulness  and  confidence  to  the  whole  corps.  All  the 
officers  saluted  her  when  the  regiment  marched  by  the 
balcony  on  which  this  brave  woman  stood  and  waved 
them  a  cheer  as  they  passed ;  and  I  daresay  it  was  not 
from  want  of  courage,  but  from  a  sense  of  female  delicacy 
and  propriety,  that  she  refrained  from  leading  the  gallant 
— th  personally  into  action, 

History  repeats  itself.  The  mould  is  altered  but 
never  broken.  Mrs.  Crook,  like  Mrs.  O'Dowd,  was  a 
brave  soldier,  and  she,  too,  could  have  led  the  — th  into 
action.  To  the  bravery  and  powers  of  endurance  of  a 
man,  she  united  the  generosity,  the  quick  tenderness, 
and  the  self-abnegating  love  of  the  woman.  She 
married  General  Crook  at  seventeen.  After  an  ideal 
honeymoon,  he  was  sent  to  San  Francisco  and  was 
stationed  in  California  in  the  Indian  country,  where  it 
was  quite  impossible  for  his  young  wife  to  accompany 
him.  But  for  these  six  months  of  enforced  separation, 
Mrs.  Crook  spent  her  whole  life  in  the  army  at  her 
husband's  side.  She  literally  buckled  on  his  sword 
every  morning  and  unbuckled  it  every  night.  If  they 
were  stationed  in  the  barren  plains  of  Arizona  or  New 


A  Brave  Lady  389 

Mexico,  with  only  canned  food  to  eat  for  the  entire 
summer  and  boiled  water  to  drink,  Mrs.  Crook  never 
thought  of  going  East.  What  General  Crook  could 
endure  she  endured  cheerfully,  uncomplainingly,  and 
bravely  until  death  parted  them.  And  next  to  her 
husband  she  loved  the  army,  having  the  good  name, 
the  courage,  and  the  honour  of  the  regiment  quite  as 
much,  if  not  more,  at  heart  than  he  had.  There  was 
no  pretty,  flighty,  or  imprudent  young  woman  who  ever 
went  to  Mrs.  Crook  for  protection  or  help  without 
getting  it,  and  it  was  given  with  a  generosity  that  even 
few  men  possess.  She  kept  husbands  and  wives 
together  by  her  devoted  example  in  never  leaving  her 
own  husband,  and  the  camp,  wherever  it  might  be, 
was  her  home,  the  regiment  her  child. 

When  they  were  stationed  in  Chicago  an  order  came 
from  the  War  Department  ordering  General  Crook  to 
transfer  all  the  Indians  from  the  reservations  in  Illinois 
to  the  Indian  territory,  now  the  State  of  Oklahoma. 
The  order  was  unnecessary,  for  they  were  industrious, 
prosperous,  inoffensive,  law-abiding,  quiet  citizens. 
Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  he  was  a  celebrated 
Indian  fighter,  General  Crook,  curiously  enough,  liked 
the  Indian,  understood  him,  and  was,  above  all,  just 
to  him.  He  said  to  Mrs.  Crook:  "Mary,  the  latest 
order  from  the  War  Department  is  going  to  take  me  out 
of  the  army." 

Her  heart  stood  still  with  fear,  but  she  said,  "Why, 
George,  you  can't  leave  the  army,  you  don't  know 
anything  else.  You  are  a  good  soldier,  but  you  could  n't 
make  a  dollar  a  day  at  any  other  profession  to  save  your 
life." 

General  Crook  said:  "Nevertheless  I  am  going  to 
resign.  I  can  fight  the  Indian,  but  I  can't  take  ad- 


390  My  Beloved  South 

vantage  of  him.  I  have  never  done  a  cowardly  thing 
that  I  can  remember,  or  one  directly  against  my  con- 
science. If  I  do  this,  I  should  be  lowered  in  my  own 
estimation,  so  I  am  going  to  send  in  my  resignation. " 

She  said:  "Why  can't  you  write  to  the  War  Depart- 
ment and  protest?  " 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  can't  do  that.  I  am  a  soldier 
and  the  War  Department  issues  orders  for  its  soldiers  to 
obey.  That  is  the  first  thing  in  a  soldier's  code — obedi- 
ence. I  could  n't  possibly  write  to  the  War  Depart- 
ment. The  only  manly  thing  for  me  to  do  is  to  resign. " 

She  rejoined,  "The  only  mad  thing  for  you  to  do  is 
to  resign.  George,  think  of  our  leaving  the  regiment! 
It  is  not  to  be  contemplated  for  a  moment." 

"That  is  just  what  is  going  to  happen, "  he  said. 

"  Can't  anything  be  done?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well, "  he  said,  "  what  about  that  God  of  yours  that 
you  are  always  telling  me  is  so  just  and  merciful? 
Where  are  your  prayers?  " 

Mrs.  Crook  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  and  said,"  Do 
you  realise,  my  dear,  that  you  have  been  my  god  for 
so  many  years  that  I  don't  know  whether  I  have  a  right 
to  pray  to  the  other  one  whom  I  loved  and  trusted  as  a 
child?  And,  now,  you  are  going  to  do  something  to 
break  my  heart. " 

He  said,  "You  should  be  more  familiar  with  your 
Bible.  Don't  you  know  it  says,  '  Put  not  your  faith  in 
Princes,'  and  adds — to  cover  the  whole  ground — 'nor 
in  any  man'?" 

She  said,  "I  have  always  remembered  about  the 
Princes." 

"Well, "  said  General  Crook,  " I  am  the  other  fellow, 
and  I  am  going  to  resign. " 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  will  make  one  last  effort.     Have 


A  Brave  Lady  391 

the  carriage  ready,  and  I  will  go  to  every  clergyman  in 
Chicago  and  beg  of  him  to  preach  a  sermon  on  the 
injustice  of  the  Indians  being  removed  to  the  Indian 
territory." 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  Mrs.  Crook,  with  her 
eloquence,  her  great  heart,  and  her  emotional  appeal, 
had  so  wrought  upon  the  feelings  of  the  clergy  that  they 
thundered  forth  from  the  pulpit  heartfelt  condemna- 
tions against  the  contemplated  injustice  of  the  govern- 
ment. The  order  from  the  War  Department  was 
rescinded  and  Mrs.  Crook  saved  a  gallant  soldier  to  the 
army. 

She  had  the  misfortune  to  outlive  her  husband,  and 
her  widowhood  was  one  of  the  saddest  things  on  earth. 
If  she  could  have  remained  Colonel  of  the  regiment  it 
would  not  have  been  so  empty,  but  to  be  bereft  of 
George  and  the  regiment  too,  that  was  indeed  supreme 
loneliness.  She  wandered  about  America,  and  even 
got  as  far  as  Europe,  trying  to  forget,  but  only  learned 
to  endure. 

One  afternoon  Mrs.  Labouchere  was  giving  a  party  at 
Old  Palace  Yard.  There  was  a  distinguished  concert 
first,  with  Patti  as  a  "bright  particular  star,"  and 
afterwards  strawberries  and  cream.  It  was  early  in 
June,  before  the  London  frocks  had  time  to  lose  their 
pristine  freshness.  Everybody  looked  their  best,  and 
it  was  a  very  gay  and  charming  scene.  Mrs.  Harter 
particularly  attracted  Mrs.  Crook.  Her  hair,  exquis- 
itely dressed,  was  surmounted  by  a  tricorne  hat  with  a 
bunch  of  white  feathers;  she  wore  a  thin,  gauzy  gown 
bespangled  with  soft  pink  roses,  a  pink  sash,  and 
beautiful  old  ornaments  of  pearls  and  diamonds.  She 
was  a  charming  figure  as  she  stood  there,  neat,  trim, 
dainty,  fashionable,  and  complete. 


392  My  Beloved  South 

When  we  got  out  into  the  street  and  walked  slowly 
up  to  St.  James's  Park  and  sat  down  on  a  bench,  Mrs. 
Crook  gave  a  long  sigh  and  said,  "Oh,  Betty,  I  am 
longing  '  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand  and  the  sound 
of  a  voice  that  is  still.'  To-day  I  do  so  badly  want  to 
see  my  dear  old  George.  You  know,  all  this  civilisation 
is  extremely  interesting  and  artificially  charming,  but 
it  is  only  the  slight  veneer  of  reality.  What  do  these 
women,  with  their  silver  tissues,  flower-wreathed  hats, 
wrinkled  gloves,  high-heeled  shoes,  and  pretty  little 
artificial  manners,  know  of  the  big  things  of  life  or  of 
the  heart?  They  have  had  nothing  to  waken  it,  and  the 
years  have  gone  so  smoothly  with  them  that  not  a  line 
has  been  written  upon  their  faces.  I  don't  know  why 
in  that  white  and  rose  drawing-room  among  those  gaily 
dressed  people,  memory  should  have  taken  me  back 
more  than  thirty  years  to  a  tragic  experience.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  law  of  contrast." 

"Tell  me,  dear  Mrs.  Crook,"  I  said,  "what  hap- 
pened?" 

"When  George  and  I  were  married,"  she  said,  "it 
was  with  the  understanding  that  I  should  stay  in  Balti- 
more with  my  family  until  he  could  send  for  me,  that  is, 
until  he  was  stationed  at  a  post  where  a  woman  could 
live  in  safety.  I  don't  say  comfortably,  because  in 
those  days  there  was  precious  little  comfort  in  the 
army.  Well,  I  waited  for  six  months,  and  there  was  no 
prospect  of  such  a  post,  so,  without  letting  him  know 
I  travelled  to  San  Francisco  alone,  and  wrote  to  him  to 
say  I  was  there  and  ready  to  join  the  army.  Of  course, 
a  girl  of  eighteen  could  not  be  left  in  that  gay  city  by 
herself,  and  he  really  did  not  want  to  send  me  home 
again,  so  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  come  for  me. 
He  asked  for  an  escort,  and  they  gave  him  a  very  small 


A  Brave  Lady  393 

one,  and  we  had  to  travel  right  through  the  heart  of  the 
Indian  country  to  get  to  the  post.  The  old  sergeant 
took  stock  of  me  and  said,  '  Mrs.  Crook,  you  look  as  if 
you  were  going  to  be  a  permanent  recruit,  now  if  you 
want  to  be  real  comfortable  you  had  better  put  on  a 
blue  flannel  shirt,  boy's  trousers,  a  soft  hat,  and  ride 
astraddle.'  So  I  did,  and  George  thought  I  was  the 
sweetest  boy  on  earth.  The  third  day  out,  I  think  it 
was,  a  terrible  look  came  over  the  face  of  the  sergeant. 
We  were  just  behind  a  grove  of  scrub  oaks,  for  we  tried 
to  get  out  of  the  danger  of  the  open  whenever  we  could. 
By  peering  through  the  foliage,  away  to  the  left,  we 
saw  about  two  hundred  Indians,  and  from  the  dim  out- 
line of  the  upstanding  feathers  on  the  heads  of  the 
braves,  evidently  they  were  on  the  war-path.  My 
husband  called  a  sudden  halt,  and  quickly  pulled  my 
horse  close  against  his,  with  a  face  like  the  face  of  the 
dead.  He  put  his  arm  round  me,  opened  the  collar  of 
my  flannel  shirt,  placed  the  muzzle  of  his  pistol  against 
my  heart,  and  said,  '  If  we  are  discovered,  dear,  it  must 
be.  Better  this  than  an  Indian !'  We  stood  so  for  ten 
mortal  minutes,  with  the  cold  steel  chilling  my  warm 
flesh.  Once,  when  an  Indian  chief  lifted  his  head, 
sniffed  the  air,  and  looked  round,  it  seemed  as  if  even 
the  horses  understood  and  became  as  rigid  as  stone. 
With  the  disappearance  of  the  last  Indian,  my  husband 
dropped  in  a  dead  faint.  The  sergeant  was  just  in  time 
to  catch  his  pistol.  When  George  came  round  and 
opened  his  eyes,  he  said, '  My  God,  I  am  ten  years  older, 
Mary !'  These  are  the  moments,  Betty,  that  weld  a  man 
and  a  woman  together  and  give  them  one  soul.  Half  of 
me  is  dead.  Tell  me  how  to  make  the  other  half  live 
until  I  find  George. "  And,  strong  and  well  and  vigorous 
as  she  was,  it  was  not  long  before  their  meeting  came. 


394  My  Beloved  South 

Buffalo  Bill  had  his  show  in  London  that  spring.  He 
had  been  a  scout  for  General  Crook,  and  he  wanted  to 
do  honour  to  his  wife,  so  he  placed  a  box  at  her  disposal 
and  gave  a  large  luncheon  to  a  party  of  army  people  and 
other  distinguished  men  and  women  then  in  town.  Mrs. 
Crook  asked  me  to  sit  in  her  box,  and  we  found  it 
draped  with  the  American  flag,  and  bunches  of  roses, 
tied  with  the  national  colours,  were  waiting  for  us. 
Colonel  Cody  had  asked  us  particularly  to  be  in  time 
for  the  entrance  of  the  procession.  We  did  n't  know 
that  an  unexpected  honour  had  been  prepared  for  Mrs. 
Crook.  The  colour-bearer  and  the  company  of  Ameri- 
can soldiers,  the  Indians  following  behind,  the  cowboys, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  procession,  galloped  straight  up 
to  the  box  and  made  the  military  salute  to  the  distin- 
guished lady  sitting  within  it. 

Mrs.  Crook  divined  what  was  going  to  happen,  and 
seized  my  hand,  saying,  "Oh,  Betty,  a  reminder  of  the 
past!  God  bless  the  army!" 

I  added,  "And  our  flag!" 

"Your  flag  and  my  flag,  and  how  it  flies  to-day 
In  your  land  and  my  land,  and  half  a  world  away, 
Rose-red  and  blood-red,  its  stripes  for  ever  gleam, 
Snow-white  and  soul-white,  the  good  forefathers'  dream, 
Sky-blue  and  true-blue,  with  stars  that  shine  aright, 
The  gloried  guidon  of  the  day  and  refuge  through  the 
night." 

I  wonder  if  there  is  anything  in  all  the  world  that 
stirs  the  blood  so  much  as  the  sight  of  Old  Glory  in 
another  land.  It  is  not  seen  as  often  as  it  should  be, 
for  we  no  longer  send  down  ships  to  the  sea,  and  I  have 
often  felt  lonely  in  a  foreign  port  for  the  sight  of  that 
banner  spangled  with  stars. 


A  Brave  Lady  395 

Mrs.  Crook  said,  as  Colonel  Cody  rode  out,  "Look 
at  Bill.  Isn't  he  a  gallant  figure?  I  never  see  him 
without  remembering  that  furious,  single  hand-to-hand 
duel  of  his  in  the  Black  Hills  country  after  Custer's 
tragic  battle,  which  did  not  leave  one  man  alive.  When 
Colonel  Merritt  marched  against  eight  hundred  Sioux 
Buffalo  Bill  and  a  number  of  picked  men  were  sent  in 
advance  on  scout  service.  They  met  two  couriers 
hotly  pursued  by  Indians,  and  in  protecting  them  a 
fight  began,  in  the  midst  of  it  the  Indians  suddenly  fell 
back  in  serried  ranks,  while  a  great  chief  wearing  a  war 
crown  of  black  and  white  feathers,  his  face  painted  in  a 
hideous  mask  of  black  and  scarlet,  hate  and  vengeance 
flashing  from  his  eyes,  rode  forward,  crying  hoarsely  to 
Buffalo  Bill, '  Death  to  you,  Pa-has-ka,  or  death  to  me ! ' 
And  the  armies  waited,  while  at  a  distance  of  fifty  yards 
those  two  brave  men  fought.  The  Indian's  horse  fell 
wounded.  At  the  same  moment  Buffalo  Bill's  mare 
stumbled  and  threw  him,  but  in  a  second  they  were 
both  on  their  feet  and,  at  a  distance  of  twenty  yards, 
fired  again.  Bill's  hat  tilted  to  one  side — a  bullet  had 
gone  through  it;  but  the  Indian  fell  forward,  shot 
through  the  heart.  The  duel  over,  Colonel  Merritt 
ordered  the  army  to  charge.  Bill,  with  the  Indian's 
top-knot  held  aloft,  rode  ahead,  his  eyes  blazing  with 
victory,  shouting  'The  first  scalp  for  Custer!"1 

I  said,  "  He  ought  to  make  that  a  feature  of  the  show." 

At  the  luncheon  I  asked  Mrs.  Crook  what  had  become 

Of  M Of  the  — th  Cavalry.  She  said,  "He  's  all 

right.  He  was  your  first  suitor,  was  n't  he?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "the  very  first,  and  I  have  never 
forgotten  him." 

She  said,  "You  might  have  done  worse  than  many 
M He  's  a  good  fellow,  although  once  he  would 


396  My  Beloved  South 

have  got  into  a  lot  of  trouble  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
me." 

"How  was  that?"  I  asked. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "a  pretty,  flirty,  foolish,  harmless, 
reckless  young  married  woman  was  seen,  or  was  said 
to  have  been  seen,  coming  out  of  his  quarters.  (He  is  a 
bachelor  yet,  by  the  way.)  I  saw  that  we  were  going 
to  have  a  big  army  scandal,  with  two  officers  fighting 
a  duel  and  a  woman's  reputation  ruined,  and  I  just 
could  n't  have  it,  so  at  any  cost  I  had  to  prove  an  alibi 
for  this  indiscreet  young  woman. " 

"Did  you  do  it?"  I  asked. 

Mrs.  Crook's  eyes  twinkled.  "Of  course  I  did,"  she 
said.  "By  the  strangest  good-luck  the  lady  was  in  my 
quarters,  and  I  could  answer  for  her.  Naturally,  the 
word  of  the  wife  of  the  Colonel  of  the  regiment  had  to 
be  accepted," 

I  said,  "If  you  said  she  was  with  you  she  was." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Crook,  "if  she  wasn't  she  ought 
to  have  been." 

I  held  up  my  glass.  "Mrs.  Crook,  I  have  always 
said  you  were  a  soldier,  an  officer,  and  a  gentleman." 

Buffalo  Bill  stood  up.  "Ladies  and  gentlemen," 
he  said,  "that  is  a  good  toast.  I  ask  you  to  drink  to 
Mrs.  Crook,  a  gallant  soldier,  an  officer,  a  gentleman, 
and  a  true  and  loyal  woman!  " 

And  we  drank  that  toast,  wishing  there  were  more  of 
her  generous  kind  in  the  world. 

Mrs.  Crook  continued,  "I  said  to  General  Crook, 
'George,  I  suppose  you  know  I  Ve  been  obliged  to  tell 
a  very  white  lie.  What  would  you  have  done? '  He  said, 
'I  don't  know;  I  never  told  a  lie  in  my  life.'  I  said, 
'You  never  told  a  lie  in  your  life?'  He  said,  'No,  I 
don't  remember  ever  to  have  told  a  lie.  Sometimes  I 


A  Brave  Lady  397 

have  remained  silent,  sometimes  I  have  evaded  a 
question,  but  I  don't  remember  ever  to  have  directly 
lied.'  Then  I  said  to  him,  'George  Crook,  wouldn't 
you  lie  for  a  woman?'  He  said,  'I  don't  know,  I  have 
never  had  to  do  it.'  Still  I  persevered,  'Would  n't  you 
if  you  had  to?'  He  said,  '  Mary,  I  would  n't  like  to  do 
it.'  'Then,'  I  said,  'if  you  are  not  prepared  to  lie, 
don't  ever  fall  in  love  with  any  woman  but  me.'  And 
he  never  did. " 

I  think  in  all  her  life  Mrs.  Crook  never  had  but  one 
rival,  a  little  baby  cousin  of  mine.  While  they  were 
stationed  in  Arizona  and  the  weather  was  at  its  very 
worst,  Colonel  Cyrus  Roberts's  wife  became  the  mother 
of  twin  girls.  One  of  them  died,  and  the  other  who 
lived  was  an  extremely  delicate  little  child.  When  she 
was  a  woman  of  three  she  developed  a  wild  adoration  of 
General  Crook.  If  Mrs.  Crook  patted  him  on  the 
shoulder  or  smoothed  his  hair,  she  would  fly  at  her  like 
a  jealous  fairy  virago,  and  her  devotion  to  him  never 
ceased  until  they  left  the  post. 

Her  elder  brother,  Charlie  Roberts,  a  boy  of  five,  had 
seen  the  nurse  coming  to  the  house  the  day  the  babies 
were  born  with  a  large  basket,  and  he  dated  their 
arrival  from  that  basket.  The  poor  little  things  were  so 
cross,  cried  so  continually,  and  required  so  much 
attention,  that  his  poor  little  nose  was  completely  out 
of  joint.  One  day  when  the  remaining  baby  was  about 
four  months  old,  the  nurse  appeared  carrying  the  same 
basket.  Charlie,  without  a  word,  rushed  over  to  Mrs. 
Crook's  quarters,  saying,  "  I  'm  going  to  live  here. 
I  'm  never  going  back  any  more  to  my  mother  and 
father,  'cause  we  Ve  got  twins  again.  The  nurse 
brought  'em  in  her  basket.  I  did  n't  see  'em,  but  I 
know  they  're  there,  and  I  won't  live  in  a  house  with  any 


398  My  Beloved  South 

more  twins. "  And  it  was  only  when  he  was  assured  of 
the  emptiness  of  the  basket  that  he  could  be  prevailed 
upon  to  go  home. 

After  Mrs.  Crook  returned  to  America  she  wrote  to 
me  from  time  to  time,  long,  affectionate  letters,  and 
sent  me  several  cookery  books,  for  she  was  an  excellent 
housekeeper,  could  make  a  tasty  dish  out  of  nothing, 
and  was  anxious  for  me  to  follow  in  her  footsteps, 
believing,  as  they  say  in  England,  that  you  should 
"feed  the  brute, "  and  do  it  artfully  and  well. 

But  in  spite  of  her  seemingly  practical  interest  in  the 
world,  her  heart  was  broken,  and  without  any  particular 
illness  she  died.  It  was  a  very  poignant  regret  to  me 
that  she  could  not  witness  her  own  funeral,  for  she  had  a 
love  of  pomp  and  circumstance  and  a  very  keen  sense 
of  gratitude  for  manifest  affection.  The  day  she  was 
buried  was  golden  with  sunshine,  a  large  gathering  of 
people  followed  the  brave  soldier  to  her  last  rest,  and 
there  was  an  opulent  luxuriance  of  flowers  which  would 
have  gladdened  her  appreciative  spirit.  Her  coffin  was 
hidden  in  them,  and  carriage  after  carriage  followed  the 
hearse  heaped  with  wreaths  and  crosses  and  hearts  and 
pillows,  and  then  quite  small  bunches  of  flowers  from 
humbler  friends,  who  had  loved  her  and  had  received 
her  sympathy  and  optimistic  help.  When  the  coffin  was 
lowered  into  the  grave,  it  rested  on  the  hearts  of 
thousands  of  beautiful  roses,  and  each  flower  contained 
love  and  regret  for  one  who  had  given  so  much  love  and 
loyalty  to  the  world. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MY  HEALING  SOUTH 

So  let  the  way  wind  up  the  hill  or  down, 
O'er  rough  or  smooth,  the  journey  will  be  joy: 
Still  seeking  what  I  sought  when  but  a  boy, 
New  friendships,  high  adventures  and  a  crown. 
My  heart  will  keep  the  courage  of  the  quest 
And  hope  the  road's  last  turn  will  be  the  best. 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE. 

MY  Utopian  idea  was  to  spend  the  summer  in  Wash- 
ington, and  yet  I  had  a  warning  of  what  the 
weather  was  to  be  when  the  Thomas  Nelson  Pages 
gave  a  dinner  to  Chief  Justice  and  Mrs.  Lamar.  The 
thermometer  stood  at, — well  anything.  The  asphalt 
streets,  having  absorbed  the  heat,  gave  it  out  in  large 
purgatorial  waves,  but  with  the  windows  all  open,  the 
dinner-table  a  long  bed  of  cool,  white  and  pink  sweet- 
peas,  a  few  blocks  of  ice  and  electric  fans,  to  forget  the 
weather  was  within  the  range  of  possibility.  But  we 
—the  Pages,  that  boyish,  popular  woman,  Belle  Hag- 
ner,  Rosewell,  and  I — wondered  how,  if  the  heat 
continued,  we  would  survive  Alfred  Thorn's  party 
arranged  to  start  the  next  evening  for  Gettysburg. 

The  sun  next  morning  rose  like  a  brazen  copper  shield. 
The  heat  never  abated  during  the  day,  but  neither  did 
our  courage.  Mrs.  Page  provided  us  with  a  dozen 
palm-leaf  fans,  guidebooks,  and  literature  appropriate 

399 


400  My  Beloved  South 

to  the  occasion,  and  after  dinner  we  drove  to  the  sta- 
tion and  entered  a  special  car  for  Baltimore. 

I  had  never  been  in  one  before  and  found  it  surpris- 
ingly comfortable.  There  were  real  bedrooms,  with 
brass  beds  and  proper  furniture;  a  long  observation 
room  furnished  in  green,  with  luxurious  chairs;  and  a 
fine  dining-room  with  a  kitchen  adjoining,  where  a 
negro  chef  prepared  frequent  and  tempting  meals.  Al- 
fred Thorn  is  a  Virginian,  a  successful  and  brilliant 
lawyer,  and  the  sort  of  man  socially  whom  his  hostess 
places  at  a  dinner  party  next  the  woman  she  wants  to 
be  happy.  We  had  not  long  finished  dining,  but  like 
the  little  boy  who  when  asked  if  he  was  hungry  replied, 
"No,  but,  thank  God,  I'm  greedy,"  we  did  justice 
to  the  supper  of  planked  shad,  soft-shell  crabs,  hot  rolls, 
salad,  and  coffee  which  was  served  about  nine  o'clock. 

I,  like  the  streets  of  Washington,  was  so  thoroughly 
baked  that  when  we  got  out  of  the  car  at  Baltimore 
there  seemed  no  abatement  in  the  temperature  to  me. 
But  Florence  Page  has  quick  susceptibilities.  She 
sniffed  the  air  with  her  little  nose,  and  said,  "A  change 
in  the  weather;  it  's  cooler."  And  so  it  proved  to  be. 
The  next  morning  was  sunless,  the  sky  a  pearl  grey, 
and  the  day  an  ideal  one  for  our  expedition.  Charles 
Scribner  and  David  Peyton  had  joined  us  at  Baltimore, 
and  a  quick  run  brought  us  to  Gettysburg,  a  pretty 
little  clean  village,  which  has  its  memories  of  the  war. 
But  we  were  too  impatient  to  tarry  there.  A  large 
char-a-banc,  with  a  couple  of  strong  horses,  conveyed 
us  to  the  great  battle-field,  and  we  got  out  at  any  point 
which  specially  interested  us. 

Tom  Page,  with  field-glasses,  was  keenly  observant. 
The  battle-field  contained  vital  interest  to  him,  as  he 
was  at  the  moment  finishing  his  life  of  General  Lee.  The 


My  Healing  South  401 

guide  had  a  stentorian  voice,  a  steady  flow  of  words, 
and  such  a  rhythmical  way  of  speaking  that,  al- 
though discoursing  of  battle  and  sudden  death,  he 'had 
rather  a  stultifying  effect.  I,  at  least,  only  heard 
from  time  to  time  the  beginning  or  the  end  of  lengthy 
descriptions. 

He  said :  ' '  The  men  who  fought  on  the  field  of  Gettys- 
burg were  among  the  bravest  that  ever  faced  the 
cannon's  mouth.  Not  even  Napoleon's  Old  Guard 
was  more  courageous  than  Longstreet's  column  as  they 
marched  across  the  fatal  field  to  be  shot  and  mangled 
by  the  murderous  fire  of  the  Union  batteries.  And  Lee's 
men  stood  as  firmly  on  the  crest  of  Cemetery  Ridge,  as 
Wellington's  battalions  at  the  battle  of  Waterloo.  Fifty 
years  have  passed  since  the  Sixteenth  Battle  of  the 
world  was  fought,  but  the  daring  deeds  and  desperate 
courage  of  the  brave  soldiers  who  lost  and  won  that 
mighty  contest  will  go  sounding  down  through  all  the 
ages.  In  the  spring  of  1863,  General  Lee,  emboldened 
by  his  many  successes,  determined  to  move  his  army 
into  the  North.  The  capital  of  Pennsylvania,  used 
for  organising  and  equipping  troops,  was  the  first  ob- 
jective point.  Washington,  the  capital  of  the  nation, 
was  the  second.  And  Gettysburg  was  felt  to  be  the 
decisive  battle  of  the  war,  for  across  the  sea  foreign 
powers  waited  to  aid  the  South  if  they  saw  success 
ahead  of  her."  (Success  can  always  get  help,  failure 
never,  no  matter  how  righteous  the  cause.) 

"Freedom  and  Independence  were  visible  to  the 
eyes  of  the  Confederate  soldiers,  when  those  inspiring 
words  were  blotted  out  by  rivers  of  blood.  Lee  moved 
the  main  part  of  his  army  to  Gettysburg  by  the  Cum- 
berland Valley—  "  the  guide  droned  on.  And  then  my 
imagination  took  flight  and  a  battle  appeared  before 


402  My  Beloved  South 

me  full  of  action  and  horror.     I  seemed  to  hear  General 
Howard  issuing  an  order  to  Colonel  Biddle. 
"Extend  the  line  to  the  south!" 
"Keep  the  enemy  from  flanking  on  the  left!" 
The  Colonel  gallops  on  his  beautiful  sorrel,  well  in 
front  of  his  guns,  his  aide  keeping  close  to  his  side.     A 
shell  whistles  between  them  and  swerves  to  the  left. 
God !  how  steadily  a  headless  man  can  ride !    The  aide 
drops  from  his  mare,  she  gives  a  whinnying  scream, 
staggers,  and  falls.     A  second  shell  has  ploughed  its 
way  deep  into  her  side.     The  Colonel  scarcely  pauses 
in  his  gallop,  but  hoarsely  calls  to  his  men: 
"  Move  forward ! — For — ward ! " 
"Guns  to  the  front!     Guns  to  the  front!" 
Look,  the  peak  of  his  cap  hangs  down,  his  face  is 
blue  and  bruised.     He  has  been  struck — no,  it  is  only 
powder,  from  an  empty  shell. 
"  Battery  gallop!"  he  orders. 

The  Federal  troops  behind  him  are  being  mowed 
down  like  corn ;  sharpshooters  are  in  their  rear ;  the 
Bucktail  brigade,  Biddle  remembers,  is  new,  and  this 
is  work  for  the  soldier  of  experience.  Eight  guns  are 
now  galloping  over  the  rough  ground.  A  slow,  vicious, 
chilling  hiss,  and  a  big  shell  flies  along,  explodes  not  a 
foot  away  from  his  horse,  a  piece  of  iron  darts  up  in 
the  air  in  front  of  him;  his  eyelashes  are  singed,  he 
rides  now  in  a  cap  without  a  visor.  A  long  grey  line 
to  the  left  pours  a  steady,  murderous  fire.  His  men 
are  confused ;  they  are  being  killed,  not  singly,  but  in 
sixes  and  tens,  making  little  mounds  of  piteous,  bleed- 
ing humanity. 

"  Fire !  Fire ! "  The  guns  roar,  but  when  the  smoke 
clears  away  only  one  gunner  is  left.  A  broad  sheet  of 
red  flame  comes  unceasingly  from  the  line  of  grey. 


My  Healing  South  403 

"  God  in  Heaven !     Is  it  all  artillery?" 

Colonel  Roy  Stone  shouts  above  the  wild  conflicting 
roar: 

"  Charge  Bucktails!" 

And  the  Bucktails  charge  after  their  Colonel,  stand 
the  fire,  and  are  mowed  down,  leaving  big  gaps,  made 
by  Pegram's  batteries.  Smoke,  shot,  shells,  wounded 
and  dying  are  clogging  the  way,  but  on  they  go  with  a 
rush,  Roy  Stone  always  ahead,  his  loud  voice  cheering 
and  encouraging : 

"Bravo  Bucktails!" 

Suddenly  he  gives  a  long,  dull,  smothered  scream; 
his  teeth  clench  tightly  together.  Blood  gushes  like  a 
fountain  from  his  limp  body,  and  from  a  great  hole  in 
the  shoulder  of  his  wounded  horse,  dyeing  the  grass  a 
vivid  scarlet.  He  will  lead  the  diminishing  number  of 
Bucktails  no  more. 

Brave  Wister  takes  his  place,  shouting  hoarsely: 

"  Don't  lose  courage,  boys!  On  to  the  cannon,  cap- 
ture the  cannon!" 

His  next  order  no  one  can  hear,  for  Hell  has  set  up 
her  orchestra  of  horrid  sounds  to  madden  men  and 
turn  them  into  bloodthirsty  tigers.  They  are  getting 
closer  to  the  enemy,  the  long  grey  line,  and  losing,  los- 
ing every  minute.  Wister  looks  to  the  right  and  yells: 

"  Hold  your  ground !  For  God's  sake,  no  surrender ! " 

The  wavering  line  of  blue  steadies;  the  heaving  guns 
are  drawn  forward,  crunching  over  bodies  still  warm, 
and  fire — fire — until  smoke  comes  forth  from  without 
as  well  as  within  the  cannon. 

"  The  sponge !    The  sponge ! " 

The  gunner  uses  it,  drops  it,  and  fires  with  blistered 
hands.  Men  are  running  now  everywhere.  The  heat 
of  the  day,  the  constant  firing,  the  hot  earth  ploughed 


404  My  Beloved  South 

up  by  shells,  makes  them  pant  like  dogs.  They  move 
brokenly  backwards  and  forwards. 

Colonel  Wister,  his  cap  gone,  his  hair  stiffened  by 
powder,  his  eyes  blazing,  opens  his  mouth  to  shout  an 
order.  God  in  Heaven !  He  has  no  tongue  to  give  it 
with.  A  bullet  has  cut  through  his  mouth  like  a  sabre 
and  ploughed  its  way  down  his  throat.  He  is  stifled 
with  blood  and  falls  heavily  across  his  horse,  which  a 
moment  later  crashes  down  with  its  front  legs  broken 
and  bleeding  The  men  falter,  wheel,  and  turn.  At 
last  the  order  has  been  given,  "  Fall  back!  Fall  back!" 

But  one  man,  a  colour  sergeant,  young,  passionate, 
defiant,  stands  as  if  turned  to  stone,  while  the  battal- 
ions double-quick  by  him.  He  is  left  alone,  holding 
high  the  flag  with  one  hand,  the  other  clenched  towards 
the  enemy ;  but  he  falls  quickly,  shot  through  the 
heart,  with  his  face  buried  in  the  stars,  and  his  life 
blood  turning  the  white  stripes  to  crimson. 

Colonel  Fremantle,  a  British  officer  on  the  staff  of 
Lee,  said,  "  My  God,  what  a  pity  to  kill  such  a  brave 
Yankee!" 

Then  I  found  myself  looking  over  a  green  field  more 
than  a  mile  long,  with  nothing,  not  even  a  tree,  to  break 
the  fire  that  mowed  down  Pickett's  division.  Yet  Fate 
had  one  moment  of  mercy  on  that  day,  as,  on  his  black 
war  horse,  a  shining  mark  for  bullets,  followed  by  the 
men  who,  imbued  with  his  iron  nerve,  marched  to  cer- 
tain death,  General  Pickett,  through  all  that  murderous 
battle,  was  spared. 

But,  gallant  soldier  as  he  was — and  George  Pickett 
is  one  of  my  heroes, — I  like  best  to  remember  him  on 
the  day  when  he  first  met  his  beautiful  wife. 

"Almost  from  babyhood,"  she  says,  "I  knew  and 


My  Healing  South  405 

loved  him,  and  from  the  first  time  I  ever  spoke  to  him 
until  the  end,  I  always  called  him, '  Soldier, — my  soldier.' 
I  was  a  wee  bit  of  a  girl  at  that  first  meeting.  I  had 
been  visiting  my  grandmother,  when  whooping-cough 
broke  out  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  she  took  me  off  to 
Old  Point  Comfort  to  visit  her  friend,  Mrs.  Boykin,  the 
sister  of  John  Y.  Mason.  I  could  dance  and  sing  and 
play  games,  and  was  made  much  of  by  the  other 
children  and  their  parents  there,  till  I  suddenly  de- 
veloped the  cough.  Then,  I  was  shunned  and 
isolated. 

"  I  could  not  understand  the  change.  I  would  press 
my  face  against  the  ball-room  window-panes,  and  watch 
them  merry-making  inside,  until  my  little  heart  would 
almost  break.  One  morning,  while  playing  alone  on 
the  beach,  I  saw  an  officer  lying  on  the  sand  under  an 
umbrella,  reading.  I  had  noticed  him  several  times, 
always  apart  from  the  others.  I  could  imagine  but  one 
reason  for  his  desolation,  and  in  pity  for  him  and  desire 
to  comfort  him,  I  crept  under  his  umbrella  to  ask  if  he, 
too,  had  whooping-cough.  He  smiled,  and  answered, 
'  No.'  But  as  I  still  persisted,  he  drew  me  to  him,  telling 
me  that  he  had  lost  his  wife  and  little  girl  and  was  very 
lonely.  I  asked  their  names.  They  had  both  been 
called  Sally. 

"  'You  can  call  me  Sally,'  I  suggested,  'I  '11  be  your 
wife  and  little  girl.' 

'"That's  a  promise,'  he  replied,  'you  shall  be 
named  Sally  and  shall  be  my  wife.' 

"My  soldier  took  a  little  ring  from  his  watch-guard 
and  put  it  on  my  finger  and  gave  me  a  tiny  heart-shape 
locket  with  'Sally'  engraved  on  one  side,  and  I  crept 
from  under  the  umbrella  pledged  to  Lieutenant  George 
E.  Pickett  of  the  United  States  Army  for  life  and  death. 


406  My  Beloved  South 

He  claimed  my  promise  later,  and  I  still  hold  most 
sacred  the  little  locket  and  the  ring." 

The  guide's  dull  monotone  reached  my  ears :  "  Pick- 
ett's  brave  Virginians  emerged  from  the  wood  with 
their  guns  to  the  right  shoulder  shift,  marching  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  not  a  man  out  of  step  but  as  steadily  as 
though  on  dress  parade.  When  they  were  half-way 
across  the  field,  all  the  guns  drawn  up  along  the  Union 
lines  concentrated  their  fire  on  the  unwavering  grey 
column,  mowing  great  gaps  in  their  ranks.  But  on 
they  came,  keeping  steady  step,  time  after  time  closing 
up  the  gaps,  not  firing  a  shot,  but  unflinchingly  press- 
ing on  and  on  across  the  field  of  death,  with  undaunted 
faces  turned  towards  that  rain  of  shot  and  shell,  as  if 
they  had  been  facing  a  summer  shower.  .  .  . 

"  General  Armistead  had  reached  the  stone  wall.  He 
replied  to  Gushing  by  saying  to  his  men,  'Boys,  give 
them  cold  steel!'  With  his  cap  on  the  point  of  his 
sword,  he  leaped  the  stone  wall,  followed  by  hundreds 
of  his  men,  and  had  reached  thirty  odd  paces  within 
the  Union  lines  when  he  fell  wounded,  near  the  body 
of  Gushing.  Then  came  the  hand-to-hand  conflict 
which  had  lasted  only  a  few  minutes  when  they  were 
obliged  to  throw  down  their  arms  and  surrender. 
Pickett's  division  had  been  almost  annihilated.  Those 
who  fought  along  the  stone  wall  at  the  Bloody  Angle 
surviving  to-day  can  testify  that  they  could  walk  from 
the  stone  wall  to  beyond  the  Emmettsburg  Road,  a 
great  distance,  over  the  dead  bodies  of  Pickett's  men." 

They  made  the  noblest  carpet  of  grey  and  red  that 
Fate  ever  laid  upon  this  green  earth.  In  a  little  village 
between  the  Emmettsburg  Road  and  beyond  the  stone 
wall,  over  six  hundred  of  Pickett's  men  were  afterwards 
buried,  and  out  of  the  fifteen  field  officers  of  his  division, 


My  Healing  South  407 

only  a  single  one  escaped  unhurt.  Pickett's  men  did 
all  that  mortal  men  could  do;  they  could  do  no  more. 
And  oh,  the  pity  of  it  all!  The  heart-break  of  it  all! 
Men  who  saw  it  say,  "  I  never  saw,  and  I  never  expect  to 
see,  so  superhumanly  grand  a  sight  as  Pickett's  fearless 
men  when  they  crossed  the  field  of  death." 

How  I  ached  as  we  drove  back  to  our  car !  My  heart, 
my  head,  my  very  soul  ached  with  the  memories  of  that 
great  and  terrible  battle.  I  stayed  by  Rosewell  Page, 
who  is  that  rare  combination,  a  witty  man  and  a  Chris- 
tian gentleman  (for  piety  is  too  often  serious;  I  once 
saw  an  advertisement  in  an  English  paper — "Wanted, 
a  lady  companion,  a  Christian;  cheerful  if  possible"), 
and  I  begged  him  to  give  me  comfort,  for  I  do  not  believe 
in  war  and  am  enrolled  among  that  honoured  body  who 
fight  for  the  universal  peace  of  the  world. 

In  spite  of  the  overpowering  heat  I  remained  in 
Washington  until  the  i8th  of  July,  a  regretable  stay 
when  my  time  might  have  been  spent  at  the  Warm 
Springs,  where  the  atmosphere  of  the  old  romantic 
South — of  my  long  vanished  childhood — still  lingers. 
Invalids  came  as  early  as  1800  to  the  Warm  Springs, 
and  it  is  quite  possible  that  even  Queen  Elizabeth  may 
have  heard  of  their  existence,  for  all  these  healing 
waters  in  Virginia  were  known  and  used  by  the  Indians 
before  America  was  discovered. 

As  early  as  1814  there  was  evidently  a  sort  of  Inn 
and  general  Exchange.  The  old  account  books  of  that 
date  are  filled  with  well-known  English  and  Scotch 
names — Cameron,  McClintock,  Campbell,  McGufifin, 
Page,  Byrd,  Wallace,  Berkley,  Sitlington,  Hamilton, 
Warwick,  and  Brockenbrough. 

The  accounts  of  William  Hunter  Cavendish,  a 
brother  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  show  that  the 


408  My  Beloved  South 

gentleman  lived  well  and  had  a  large  establishment,  as 
he  bought  a  hundred  and  seventy-six  pounds  of  beef  at 
— lucky  man! — threepence  a  pound: 

The  Honourable  Wm.  Cavendish,  Esq. : 
Buy    56  Venison      @3d. 
Buy     2  Pigs 
Buy  176  Beef 
Buy      i  Bear  Skin 


£4. 


George  Washington,  who  was  not  only  a  devoted 
husband,  but  a  model  son-in-law  and  step-father, 
brought  his  family  over  the  mountain  in  1796  for  the 
benefit  of  the  health  of  little  Patsy  Custis,  and  camped 
at  Warm  Springs,  hoping  that  the  healing  waters  would 
cure  Patsy.  Probably  there  was  a  large  party,  as  he 
had  invited  his  brother-in-law,  Colonel  Bassett,  and  his 
whole  family,  which  meant  wife,  children,  servants,  and 
horses,  to  join  him  and  wrote,  "You  will  have  occasion 
to  provide  nothing  if  I  can  be  advised  of  your  intentions 
so  that  I  may  provide  accordingly." 

Doubtless  then,  as  now,  there  was  a  pool,  and  this 
kind,  warm,  sulphur  water  flowed  at  the  present  rate 
of  twelve  hundred  gallons  a  minute.  The  open-air 
life  must  have  been  exhilarating  and  health  giving,  as 
the  visitors  lived  in  strong  tents  pitched  underneath  the 
trees  of  the  primeval  forest.  Certainly  George  Wash- 
ington enjoyed  his  stay.  He  wrote  to  a  friend: 

I  think,  with  you,  that  the  life  of  a  husbandman  is  the 
most  delectable.  It  is  honourable,  it  is  amusing,  and,  with 
judicious  management,  it  is  profitable.  To  see  plants  rise 
from  the  earth  and  flourish  by  the  superior  skill  and  bounty 


My  Healing  South  409 

of  the  labourer  fills  a  contemplative  mind  with  ideas  which 
are  more  easy  to  be  conceived  than  expressed. 

And  the  Washingtons  in  1911  are  still  faithful  to  the 
Warm  Springs.  Maria  Washington  Tucker,  an  unpre- 
tentious, simple,  friendly  lady,  the  daughter  of  George 
Washington's  nephew,  Augustine,  and  wife  of  Bishop 
Beverly  Tucker  of  Virginia,  the  happy  mother  of 
thirteen  children,  has  been  with  her  husband  and  some 
members  of  her  family  at  the  Warm  Springs  this 
summer. 

By  1820,  the  Warm  Springs  had  become  a  fashionable 
resort.  The  arrivals  and  departures  of  half  the  well- 
known  families  of  the  South  are  recorded  in  the  mottled- 
backed,  musty,  brown-leaved  old  registers.  On  August 
7,  1818,  ten  years  after  he  had  been  President, 
Thomas  Jefferson  arrived  there  with  one  servant  and 
two  horses.  He  always  maintained  republican  simpli- 
city of  life,  although  his  house,  "  Monticello, "  near 
Charlottesville,  was  modelled  after  an  Italian  palace. 
I  don't  understand  how  the  Clerk  of  the  Registers 
confined  himself  to  merely  writing,  "Thomas  Jefferson, 
two  horses  and  one  servant."  He  should  have  added: 
"This  great  man,  a  former  President  of  the  United 
States,  the  author  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence, 
the  father  of  the  Virginia  University,  an  intelligent 
lover  of  architecture  who  made  the  design  for  the 
Capitol  of  Richmond,  the  University,  and  his  own 
beautiful  house,  looked  well,  and  was  modest  and  simple 
in  his  demeanour.  He  spoke  to  his  friends  among  the 
guests  with  gracious  dignity.  After  the  long  journey, 
his  body  servant  unpacked  his  carpet-bag  and  made 
him  comfortable.  He  likes  the  baths  and  will  remain 
some  days  or  a  week,"  Jefferson  must  have  been  an 


4io  My  Beloved  South 

abstemious  man,  for  there  is  neither  whiskey,  brandy, 
nor  gin  charged  to  his  account. 

Alexander  Hamilton  arrived  at  the  Springs  on  March 
10,  1800,  with  one  horse  and  no  servant.  He  must 
have  loved  the  Warm  Springs,  or  perhaps  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton and  the  children  were  spending  the  summer  there, 
and  he  could  never  remain  long  away  from  his  beloved 
eldest  daughter,  who,  young,  gifted,  and  beautiful,  lost 
her  reason  and  never  recovered  it  at  the  time  of  his 
tragic  death.  For  he  visited  the  Springs  again  in  May, 
June,  and  July  and  made  frequent  visits  in  the  following 
summer  also. 

In  July,  1820,  Austin  Brockenborough  arrived  with 
his  "ladye, "  his  daughter,  three  servants,  and  two 
horses.  Probably  the  place,  then  as  now,  was  already 
celebrated  for  "mint  juleps,"  for  Mr.  Brockenborough 
had  several  charged  to  his  account  each  day.  On  July 
5,  1820,  Craven  Peyton,  "ladye,"  daughter,  two 
servants,  and  two  horses  arrived.  They  were  cous- 
ins of  the  Duvals,  my  mother's  family,  and  lived 
in  Richmond.  On  August  1st  came  James  Chesnut 
from  South  Carolina  with  his  "ladye, "six  children, 
five  servants,  and  eight  horses.  He  drank  ale, 
port,  and  brandy  and  in  a  few  days  his  bill  amounted 
to  four  hundred  and  twenty  dollars.  The  Chesnuts 
were  rich  and  evidently  lived  well.  John  L.  Barn- 
well  arrived  from  Charleston  on  September  16, 
1820,  with  "daughter  and  son,  three  servants,  and 
seven  horses."  The  Barn  wells  were  apparently  a 
clean  family,  for  they  favoured  the  laundress  in  their 
week's  stay  with  seventy-one  pieces  of  clothing,  "to  be 
washed  and  clear  starched. "  Also,  the  father  and  son 
drank  a  good  deal  of  porter  (what  a  strange  fancy  for  a 
summer  drink !)  and  Madeira,  and  smoked  many  cigars. 


My  Healing  South  411 

Charles  L.  Francisco  evidently  ordered  many  things 
through  the  Warm  Springs  Company,  for  his  accounts 
are  long,  complicated,  and  extensive.  He  built  and 
lived  at  the  beautiful  place  a  mile  from  the  hotel  called 
"The  Oaks"  which  is  rather  a  misnomer,  as  the  house 
looks  like  an  Italian  villa. 

The  present  hotel,  built  not  later  than  1820,  is  in  the 
English  style  of  architecture  with  the  addition  of  a 
noble  pillared  balcony.  It  stands  in  extensive  wooded 
grounds  with  grass  as  green  as  that  of  Windsor  Park. 
Already  the  beautiful  maples  are  turning  scarlet  and 
gold,  for  this  sweet  valley  is  three  thousand  feet  and 
more  above  the  sea,  and  the  nights,  cool  throughout 
the  summer,  are  almost  frosty  in  October. 

Mrs.  Eubank,  a  tall,  dignified,  handsome  lady,  came 
here  from  South  Carolina  to  spend  the  summer 
many  years  ago.  She  met  Colonel  Eubank,  a  fine, 
dashing  widower,  and  he  followed  her  back  to  her 
mother's  plantations  and  there  she  married  him.  Mr. 
McGuire,  president  of  the  Corcoran  Art  Gallery,  who, 
with  his  wife,  has  spent  thirty  summers  here,  told  me 
that  Colonel  Eubank  was  the  very  soul  of  open-hearted 
hospitality.  He  heard  him  enquire  of  a  Professor  who 
was  leaving  the  next  day,  "Why  are  you  going  away 
so  soon?"  The  Professor  hesitated  a  moment,  and 
said,  "The  fact  is,  I  cannot  afford  to  stay  any  longer." 
And  Colonel  Eubank  answered,  "It  will  give  me 
the  greatest  pleasure  to  have  you  remain  another 
fortnight  as  my  guest."  The  spirit  pervading  the 
house  was  that  of  kindliness,  obligation,  and  protection 
to  the  people  under  his  roof,  and  to  his  employees,  and 
it  remains  so  still. 

After  his  death  Mrs.  Eubank  assumed  the  responsi- 
bility of  the  hotel,  her  lifelong  friends  and  servants 


412  My  Beloved  South 

making  it  comparatively  easy  for  her.  The  head- 
waiter,  a  courtly  black  gentleman,  with  flowing,  Dun- 
dreary side-whiskers,  has  been  here  twenty-nine 
years.  One  of  the  cooks  who  lately  died  of  old  age 
had  been  here  forty  years.  The  old  watchman,  who 
walked  about  the  place  all  through  the  night,  swinging 
his  old-fashioned  lantern,  and  who  often  stopped 
by  my  wakeful  window  to  give  me  a  word  of  sympa- 
thy and  ask,  "When  in  de  name  of  sense  is  you  gwine 
to  sleep?"  had  been  here  forty-five  years.  He,  too, 
died  in  September.  The  negroes  know  they  have  not 
only  an  understanding  mistress  but  a  friend  in  Mrs. 
Eubank,  and  they  return  again  and  again,  imbued  with 
the  feeling  of  coming  home. 

The  fine  white  ballroom  has  been  the  scene  of  more 
than  one  jollification  for  them  this  summer.  There 
was  a  splendid  cake-walk,  the  darkies  all  in  fanciful  and 
gay  attire,  with  several  big  frosted  white  cakes  as 
awards  for  the  best  dancers  at  the  end  of  it.  John 
Carter,  the  chief  cook,  a  really  talented  comedian,  was 
Master  of  Ceremonies.  Later  there  was  a  midsummer 
wedding  with  my  maid  Constance  as  the  bride,  wearing 
a  white  silk  dress  and  a  tulle  veil  so  voluminous  that  it 
looked  like  a  Norwegian  waterfall  near  Christiania 
called  ' '  Bride  of  the  Mist. ' '  The  clergyman  stood  in  an 
arch  of  white  flowers  with  a  bell  suspended  from  the 
centre.  The  groom  and  the  bride,  kneeling  on  hassocks 
in  front  of  him,  were  married  according  to  the  ritual 
of  the  Episcopal  Church  and  every  detail  was  quite 
comme  il  faut.  Afterwards  they  danced  in  the  lower 
room  of  a  house  with  a  ballroom  and  a  piano  which  is 
used  entirely  for  the  entertainment  of  the  servants. 

But  the  concert  of  the  waiters  and  chambermaids  was 
by  far  the  most  interesting  of  their  entertainments. 


My  Healing  South 


413 


They  gave  a  number  of  characteristic  part-songs  in 
wonderful  rhythm,  with  hands  and  feet  and  body  in 
swaying  movement  and  expressive  gestures,  keeping 
perfect  time.  The  songs  were  all  negro  words  and 
melodies.  Some  of  them  were  even  improvisations. 
They  received  many  encores  and  John  Carter,  at  my 
request,  gave  "Poor  Mourner  You  Shall  be  Free." 
William,  who  brings  my  breakfast  in  the  morning, 
wrote  the  music. 


Moderate. 


-*  *  * 


£=£ 


-*— *- 


Poor  mourner, you  shaU  be  free!  Poor  mourner, you  shall  be  freel 


Poor  mourner  ,  you  shall  be  freel  When  the  good  Lord  calls  you  home. 


"  I  got  a  gal,  she  's  just  the  card, 
She  works  over  in  the  white  folks'  yard, 
She  cooks  de  chicken,  she  saves  me  de  wing, 
She  thinks  I  'm  workin'  when  I  don't  do  a  thing. 

1st  Chorus  :  Swing  easy,  you  shall  be  free  , 

On  pork  chops  greasy,  you  shall  be  free, 
Ain't  I  teasin',  you  shall  be  free, 
When  de  good  Lord  calls  you  home. 

Every  night  at  half  pas'  eight, 
I  go  marchin'  to  de  white  folks'  gate, 
When  I  get  there  I  take  a  stand, 
Get  my  meals  out  de  white  folks'  pan. 

2d  Chorus:  Ain't  I  foolin',  you  shall  be  free, 
Ain't  I  foolin',  you  shall  be  free, 
Ain't  I  foolin,'  you  shall  be  free, 
When  de  good  Lord  calls  you  home. 


414  My  Beloved  South 

My  old  mistus,  she  promised  me 

Befo'  she  died,  she  was  gwine  to  set  me  free, 

She  lived  so  long,  till  her  head  got  bald, 

I  thought  the  poor  old  lady  would  n't  die  at  all. 

jd  Chorus :  Poor  mourner,  you  shall  be  free, 
Poor  mourner,  you  shall  be  free, 
Poor  mourner,  you  shall  be  free, 
When  de  good  Lord  calls  you  home. 

See  dat  nigger  layin'  behind  dat  log, 
Hand  on  a  trigger  and  his  eye  on  a  hog, 
De  gun  went  bang,  the  hog  fell  blip ! 
De  nigger  jumped  on  him  with  all  his  grip. 

4th  Chorus:  He  loves  his  pork  chop,  you  shall  be  free, 
He  loves  his  middlin's,  you  shall  be  free, 
He  loves  his  chitlin's,  you  shall  be  free, 
When  de  good  Lord  calls  you  home. 

Bake  dem  biscuit,  bake  'em  brown, 
Turn  dem  flapjacks  roun'  and  roun', 
Shake  dat  feather  bed  and  shake  it  light, 
'Cause  Ole  Marse  Johnson's  gwine  to  spen'  de 
night. 

$th  Chorus:  In  his  slumber,  you  shall  be  free, 
A  sleepin'  easy,  you  shall  be  free, 
A  sleepin'  easy,  you  shall  be  free, 
When  de  good  Lord  calls  you  home. 

The  negroes  here  are  usually  from  Charlottesville  and 
are  very  often  employed  in  the  University  of  Virginia, 
or  in  the  houses  of  the  Professors  there.  They  are 
thoroughly  respectable  servants  with  excellent  manners 
and  untemptable  honesty,  for,  living  in  a  little  cottage, 
I  have  left  money,  jewellery,  and  clothes  in  unlocked 
drawers,  and  have  lost  nothing  all  the  summer,  which  is 


My  Healing  South  415 

more  than  I  can  say  for  the  white  servants  in  New  York 
hotels  who  never  fail  to  appropriate  a  few  of  my 
belongings  (alas,  my  tiger's  whisker!)  whenever  I  visit 
that  rapacious  and  ruthless  city.  Faithfulness  is  indeed 
the  fashion  of  the  Warm  Springs ;  it  is  in  the  very  atmo- 
sphere of  the  place. 

"Have  you  been  at  Warm  Springs  before?"  "No," 
you  say,  "have  you?"  "Oh  yes,"  the  lady  answers 
sweetly,  but  with  a  superior  and  patronising  air;  "we 
have  spent  twenty  summers  here."  Another  says, 
"This  is  our  twenty-fifth  summer."  Some  one  else 
meekly  remarks,  "We  have  only  been  here  thirteen 
summers."  No  one  would  have  the  hardihood  to 
mention  four  or  six  summers.  Why  announce  your- 
self as  a  vulgar  newcomer?  When  you  see  a  girl  dive 
like  a  blue  or  a  pink  arrow,  according  to  the  colour  of 
her  brief  bathing-dress,  and  swim  fifty  feet  under  water 
across  the  pool,  you  may  be  sure  her  first  experience 
was  as  a  baby  when  her  black  nurse  held  her  in  her 
arms  and  let  her  see  all  the  pretty  ladies  swim,  her 
young  mother  among  them.  Now  her  mamma,  not 
quite  so  young,  sits  and  crotchets  on  the  balcony,  while 
the  daughter  swims. 

Louise  Gibson,  a  strawberry  and  cream  goddess,  is 
eighteen,  and  she  has  spent  just  eighteen  summers  here. 
Her  grandmother  probably  came  at  about  the  same 
age.  She  still  comes  with  her  son,  George  Gibson,  the 
father  of  Louise,  an  accomplished  musician  and  a  man 
of  many  parts.  His  tall,  graceful  wife,  in  her  garden- 
ing gloves  and  wide  hat,  always  suggests  to  me  "Eliza- 
beth and  her  German  Garden."  She  is  a  picturesque 
conversationalist,  and  without  any  effort  is  a  vivid  maker 
of  word  pictures.  How  I  have  begged  her  to  write  a 
book  and  call  it  "  The  Worship  of  Ancestors,"  for  she  be- 


416  My  Beloved  South 

gan  her  married  life  as  a  young  bride  with  a  household 
consisting  of  her  mother-in-law,  an  elderly  cousin  of  her 
mother-in-law  (now  eighty-eight),  a  nurse  of  her  hus- 
band's (now  ninety-two),  and  Charlotte,  an  old  negro 
cook,  who  belonged  originally  to  her  husband's  grand- 
mother. Old  Charlotte's  young  mistress  once  said 
politely  and  appealingly  to  her,  "Don't  roast  the 
beef  so  much,  Charlotte;  we  like  it  rare."  Charlotte 
looked  very  determined  and  said,  "Dead  Mrs.  Gibson 
liked  her  meat  well  done."  And  well  done  it  was 
always  served,  until  Charlotte,  very  unwillingly,  died. 
Mrs.  George  Gibson  is  still  young  and  handsome,  but 
she  says  the  elderly  cousin  has  now  entirely  forgotten 
the  difference  between  their  ages.  ' '  Do  you  remember, ' ' 
she  asks  her,  "when  the  Indians  were  camped  just 
outside  Baltimore?"  And  one  day  she  complained 
of  the  want  of  gallantry  among  men;  "no  one  ever 
comes  to  serenade  Sara." 

"Fancy,"  said  Mrs.  George,  "on  our  broad  street,  a 
constant  thoroughfare  for  traffic,  a  young  man  standing 
under  Sara's  window  on  a  moonlight  night,  tuning  up  a 
guitar  and  beginning, 

'From  the  desert  I  come  to  thee 
On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire — ' 

Honk!    Honk!  from  a  motor — 

'  And  the  winds  are  left  behind 
With  the  speed  of  my  desire — ' 

Ping!  Ping!  from  a  streetcar,  Ping!  r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r — ur 
as  it  curves  round  the  corner — 

'  I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee 
With  a  love  that  cannot — ' 


My  Healing  South  417 

Rumble,  rumble,  rumble  from  a  truck  waggon— 

'die. 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old — ' 

Ping!     Ping!      'Hurry  up,'  from  the  car  conductor, 
4  Gee !  but  you  're  slow. '     Ping ! 

*  And  the  leaves 
Of  the  Judgment  Book  unfold.' 

Honk!    Honk!     4 Cheer  up.     Come  along'  (from  the 
conductor  of  the  car). 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  George,  "the  horn  of  the  motor  has 
killed  the  twang  of  the  guitar,  but  Eighty-eight  happily 
lives  in  the  past  of  serenades  and  does  n't  even  realise 
the  present  of  electricity." 

In  the  South,  Duty  is  a  thing  still  in  observance  and 
the  impossible  is  made  possible  through  the  power  of 
that  almost  obsolete  word.  This  summer  a  young 
Judge  used  to  sit  on  the  balcony  with  his  two  mothers- 
in-law,  two  sets  of  children,  and  one  wife.  After  the 
death  of  his  first  wife,  his  mother-in-law  came  to  live 
with  him  and  take  care  of  his  children.  He  married 
again,  an  only  daughter,  and  her  mother  could  n't 
live  alone,  so  she  too  joined  the  family  circle.  Then 
came  more  babies  and  there  they  all  were,  quite  united 
and  happy  together. 

This  is,  indeed,  a  dear  old-fashioned  place.  The  peo- 
ple, the  habits,  the  customs  are  all  of  the  antebellum 
South.  "Aunt  Fanny,"  a  sprightly  black  lady  of 
seventy-five  years'  slim  alertness,  with  great  dignity  and 
self-respect,  and  reserved  manners,  has  had  charge  of 
the  bath  for  thirty-five  years.  A  party  of  Northern 
people,  gay  young  men  and  women  from  the  Hot 


4i 8  My  Beloved  South 

Springs,  drove  over  to  see  the  place,  and  going  into 
ecstasies  over  the  great  pool  they  said,  "How  delight- 
ful it  would  be  to  have  a  swimming  party  here.  Could 
we,"  they  asked  Aunt  Fanny,  "arrange  something  of 
the  kind?"  Aunt  Fanny  was  shocked,  looked  severe, 
and  said,  "Ef  you-all  is  all  kin  folks  maybe  you  might 
go  in  togedder. "  Her  modesty  created  great  mirth  in 
the  party,  to  whom,  nevertheless,  she  could  have  given 
lessons  in  dignity  and  reticence. 

I  slip  out  of  Hollyhock  Row,  where  I  live,  at  twilight, 
and  run  down  in  my  kimono  to  the  bath  after  closing 
hours,  but  Aunt  Fanny  extends  her  clemency  to  a  work- 
ing woman,  and  I  swim  oftentimes  for  an  hour  round  and 
round  in  the  soft,  warm,  velvety  water,  in  that  magic 
pool,  sometimes  floating  on  my  back  and  looking  up 
through  the  open  dome  at  the  big  brilliant  stars  with  the 
beautiful  constellation  of  Lyra  in  the  centre.  Once  a 
little  owl  flew  in,  circled  round  and  round,  looked  at  me 
with  his  big  eyes,  and  flew  out  again.  At  half-past 
seven  exactly  a  familiar,  delicious  perfume  floats  in, 
the  smoke  of  Virginia  tobacco  from  a  corn-cob  pipe. 
My  Mammy,  oh,  so  long  ago,  smoked  a  corn-cob  pipe 
every  evening  in  her  cabin,  and  I  say  softly  to  myself, 
"  I  am  in  my  Beloved  South,  in  Virginia. "  The  water 
is  very  warm,  the  stars  are  very  near.  I  shall  have  hot 
rolls,  fresh  butter,  quince  jelly,  and  "crumbs  of  comfort" 
for  my  supper. 

Edmonia  Francisco,  not  the  fancy  name  but  the  real 
one  of  a  beautiful  girl,  with  blue  eyes  and  eyebrows 
of  so  entrancing  a  shape  that  they  must,  in  an  idle 
moment,  have  been  drawn  by  Cupid,  is  typewriting  my 
book.  She  has  borrowed  a  buggy  for  to-morrow  and 
is  going  to  drive  me  through  Dunn's  Gap  and  after- 
wards I  am  to  sup  with  her  and  eat  generous  ears 


My  Healing  South  419 

of  "Country  Gentleman,"  a  brand  of  corn  which  I 
can  highly  recommend.  As  I  come  up  from  my  bath, 
surely  I  must  be  a  child  again,  for  a  very  sweet,  little 
young  voice  is  singing  to  the  accompaniment  of  a 
guitar: 


The  years  creep  slowly  by,  Lorena; 

The  snow  is  on  the  grass  again; 
The  sun  's  low  down  the  sky,  Lorena, 

The  frost  gleams  where  the  flowers  have  been, 
But  the  heart  throbs  on  as  warmly  now 

As  when  the  summer  days  were  nigh. 
Oh,  the  sun  can  never  dip  so  low 

As  down  affection's  cloudless  sky. 


1 A  hundred  months  have  passed,  Lorena, 

Since  last  I  held  that  hand  in  mine, 
And  felt  the  pulse  beat  high,  Lorena, 

Though  mine  beat  faster  far  than  thine. 
A  hundred  months,  't  was  flowery  May, 

When  up  the  hilly  slope  we  climbed 
To  watch  the  dying  of  the  day 

And  hear  the  distant  church  bells  chime. 


"  We  loved  each  other  then,  Lorena, 

More  than  we  ever  dared  to  tell; 
And  what  we  might  have  been,  Lorena, 

Had  but  our  loving  prospered  well. 
But  then,  't  is  past,  the  years  have  gone, 

I  '11  not  call  up  their  shadowy  forms, 
I  '11  say  to  them,  '  Lost  years,  sleep  on, 

Sleep  on,  nor  heed  life's  perilous  storms.' 


420  My  Beloved  South 

"  It  matters  little  now,  Lorena, 

The  past  is  the  eternal  past; 
Our  hearts  will  soon  lie  low,  Lorena, 

Life's  tide  is  ebbing  out  so  fast; 
There  is  a  future,  oh,  thank  God! 

Of  life  this  is  so  small  a  part — 
'T  is  dust  to  dust  beneath  the  sod, 

But  there,  up  there,  't  is  heart  to  heart. " 

"Lorena,"  "Juanita,"  and  "Kathleen  O'Moore," 
are  the  first  songs  I  remember.  They  belonged  to  the 
repertoire  of  my  mother  and  my  aunt,  Florida  Howard. 

As  George  Gibson  left  the  supper  room  he  stopped  for 
a  moment  at  my  table.  Looking  at  a  dove-coloured 
bit  of  brocade  fastened  with  crystal  buttons,  I  said, 
"What  a  smart  waistcoat!" 

"My  grandfather  wore  it  at  the  coronation  of  Queen 
Victoria,"  he  said,  "when  he  was  visiting  his  cousin, 
Lord  Macaulay." 

"  Good  gracious !  And  you  speak  of  it, "  I  said,  "  as  if 
you  had  bought  it  at  Wanamaker's !  I  think  you  should 
put  it  in  a  glass  case.  Where  are  the  rest  of  the 
clothes  your  grandfather  wore?" 

"My  grandfather,  to  his  credit,"  he  said,  "was  more 
impressed  with  the  beautiful  voice  of  the  young  Queen 
than  by  his  own  attire. " 

"Maybe,"  I  said,  "Fanny  Kemble  was  seated  by 
your  grandfather.  She  was  a  splendid  elocutionist 
herself,  and  wrote: 

"  The  Queen's  voice  was  exquisite;  nor  have  I  ever  heard 
any  spoken  words  more  musical  in  their  gentle  distinctness 
than  the  'My  Lords  and  Gentlemen,'  which  broke  the 
breathless  silence  of  the  illustrious  assembly,  whose  gaze 


My  Healing  South  421 

was  riveted  upon  that  fair  flower  of  royalty.  The  enuncia- 
tion was  as  perfect  as  the  intonation  was  melodious,  and  I 
think  it  is  impossible  to  hear  a  more  excellent  utterance  than 
that  of  the  Queen's  English  by  the  English  Queen." 

After  my  long  swim  I  had  a  good  night's  sleep  which 
was  lucky,  for  next  morning  Thomas  Underwood  Dud- 
ley woke  me  rather  early.  He  is  familiarly  known  by 
his  initials  as  "  Tud  "  and  is  an  unusually  silent,  fas- 
cinating, haughty  black  spaniel.  He  lives  in  the 
picturesque  cottage  opposite  mine,  where  his  popular 
mistress,  Mrs.  Woodward,  dispenses  true  Kentucky 
hospitality. 

If  any  one  is  depressed  or  down,  one  of  her  mint 
juleps  changes  the  entire  complexion  of  the  world  to 
couleur  de  rose.  "Tud,"  finding  some  delightful  mys- 
terious thing  in  the  grass,  had  put  aside  his  usual 
aristocratic  indifference  for  excited  sniffles  and  barks. 
I  was  glad  to  get  up  and  was  fresh  for  work  in  the 
morning  and  my  drive  with  Edmonia  in  the  afternoon. 

In  spite  of  her  occasional  fancy  flights  in  typing,  I  can 
say  to  this  charming  girl: 

Thou  wouldst  be  loved?    Then  let  thy  heart 

From  its  present  pathway  'part  not! 
Being  everything  which  now  thou  art, 

Being  nothing  which  thou  art  not. 
So  with  the  world  thy  gentle  ways, 

Thy  grace,  thy  more  than  beauty, 
Shall  be  an  endless  theme  of  praise, 

And  love — a  simple  duty. 

What  an  entrancing  drive  we  had  in  the  goldenest  of 
afternoons,  through  the  close  greenery  of  Dunn's  Gap, 


422  My  Beloved  South 

with  brown  waterfalls  tumbling  over  great  banks  of 
ferns,  and  everywhere  bushes  of  rhododendron  and 
laurel.  Bluebirds  darted  across  the  road  and  the  voice 
of  the  thrush  was  heard  far  away  in  the  woods,  and  as 
he  sang  his  song,  the  meadowlark  answered  him  with 
sweet  neighbourliness  in  clear  flute-like  notes.  The 
goldfinch,  who  is  afraid  of  nothing,  cocked  his  head  on 
one  side  and  made  an  impudent  remark  as  we  passed 
by.  Where  the  sun  penetrated  through  the  dense 
foliage  and  induced  the  goldenrod  to  blossom,  it  seemed 
weighed  down  with  drifting  autumn  leaves,  but  pre- 
sently the  leaves  rose,  opened,  and  butterflies  flew  away, 
disclosing  beneath  the  pale  brown  an  undersurface  in 
rich  mottlings  of  grey  and  orange.  In  wonderful  con- 
trast there  were  black  velvet  butterflies,  very  large 
and  languidly  lazy,  which,  when  disturbed  as  they 
hovered  over  some  flower,  obligingly  rose  slowly  above 
our  heads,  that  we  might  see  the  glittering  blue  and 
silver  lining  of  their  wings. 

Sometimes  we  met  cows  being  driven  home  by  a 
negro  woman  who  would  call  to  them,  "Soo-kee,  So-o- 
o-kee,  Soo-cow, "  and  once  a  young  cow  came  along 
looking  archly  astonished  as  if  to  say,  "I  did  n't  know 
you  wanted  me,"  then  stopped  again  to  snatch  mouth- 
fuls  of  grass  before  entering  the  cow-shed  to  be  milked. 
One  solitary  redbird  in  a  little  tree  of  silver  poplar 
called, ' '  What-cheer !  What-cheer ! "  as  we  drove  along, 
and  we  saw  a  few  late  groups  of  that  charming  wind- 
flower,  the  anemone,  white  and  pink  and  purple.  Back 
in  the  woods  a  little  patch  of  harebells  grew,  and  lower 
down,  in  a  protected  hollow,  were  bleeding-hearts  and 
adder's-tongue,  closely  guarded  by  the  clasp  of  their 
furry  silvery  leaves.  Farther  along,  near  a  maple  tree, 
the  top  scarlet,  the  centre  green,  with  golden  under 


My  Healing  South  423 

branches,  bloomed  belated  Dutchman's-breeches,  and 
the  sweet  purple  daisy,  "farewell-summer,"  for  summer 
going  all  too  quick,  had  already  begun  to  crowd  and 
push  and  jostle  the  other  flowers. 

When  we  left  the  Gap  and  followed  the  open  road, 
the  wonderful  waves  of  towering  mountains  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach  were  bathing  themselves  in  blue,  violet, 
and  purple  shadows,  and  where  a  delicate  mist  had 
floated  over  a  hill  it  was  the  soft  colour  of  palest  laven- 
der. The  sunset  was  splendidly  gorgeous,  as  mountain 
sunsets  so  often  are.  The  sky,  a  deep  transparent 
sapphire  blue,  was  smeared  with  masses  of  torn,  flame- 
coloured  clouds  like  long  fiery  streamers,  stretching 
across  it  to  the  east.  And  in  the  west,  a  translucent 
lake  of  ruddiest  gold  was  flecked  with  thick,  rugged 
little  clouds  of  deepest  purple.  Below  this  line  flowed 
a  river  of  clear,  vivid  aquamarine,  and  long  water- 
falls of  purest  gold  descended  from  the  high  dome 
centre,  flanked  by  great  clouds  which,  like  saffron 
ships,  scudded  away  to  the  north.  A  splendid,  glowing, 
flaming  riot  of  colour,  full  of  richness  and  soul-satis- 
fying beauty,  thrilled  the  world. 

Let  the  world  roll  blindly  on! 

Give  me  shadow,  give  me  sun, 

And  a  perfumed  eve  as  this  is, 

Let  me  lie, 

Dreamfully, 

When  the  last  quick  sunbeams  shiver, 

Spears  of  light  athwart  the  river, 

And  a  breeze,  which  seems  the  sigh 

Of  a  fairy  floating  by, 

Coyly  kisses 

Tender  leaf  and  feather  grasses, 


424      ,  My  Beloved  South 

Yet,  so  soft  its  breathing  passes, 

These  tall  ferns,  just  glimmering  o'er  me, 

Bending  goldenly  before  me, 

Hardly  quiver. 

I  have  done  with  worldly  scheming, 

Mocking  show  and  hollow  seeming! 

Let  me  lie 

Idly  here, 

Lapped  in  lulling  waves  of  air, 

Facing  full  the  shadowy  sky. 

Fame! — the  very  sound  is  dreary! 

Shut,  O  soul!  thine  eyelids  weary, 

For  all  Nature's  voices  say, 

'  'T  is  the  close — the  close  of  day.' 

Thought  and  grief  have  had  their  sway; 

Now  sleep  bares  her  balmy  breast, 

Whispering  low 

(Low  as  moonset  tides  that  flow 

Up  still  beaches  far  away; 

While,  from  out  the  lucid  West, 

Flutelike  winds  of  murmurous  breath 

Sink  to  tender-panting  death), 

'  On  my  bosom  take  thy  rest 

(Care  and  grief  have  had  their  day!); 

'T  is  the  hour  for  dreaming, 

Fragrant  rest,  elysian  dreaming!' 

At  nine  o'clock  as  I  enter  the  hotel  grounds  and  walk 
towards  the  little  white  cottage  which  in  the  last  three 
months  has  grown  like  home  to  me,  I  look  to  the  right 
and  see  the  friendly  lights  of  a  larger  grey  cottage, 
nestling  against  the  side  of  a  hill  almost  in  the  arms  of 
three  protecting  trees.  On  the  balcony  is  a  big  stone 
jar  filled  with  great  branches  of  scarlet  autumn  leaves, 
and  inside  is  the  familiar  sound  of  a  typewriter.  It  is 


My  Healing  South  425 

gifted  Mary  Johnston  giving  little  taps  and  bringing 
forth  big  ideas,  for  she  is  busily  at  work  on  her  second 
great  battle  book,  Cease  Firing.  I  have  had  what  I 
hoped  for,  the  four  blessed  seasons  of  the  year  in  my 
beloved  South;  the  soft  and  friendly  winter,  the  early 
spring,  when  all  nature  breaks  into  bud  and  blossom. 
What  joy  it  has  been  to  go  once  more  into  the  woods 
and  to  hunt  for  the  faint  pink  shy  arbutus,  and  to  see 
May's  starry  crown.  First  the  little,  soft,  many-leaved 
dandelion,  the  orange  disk  that  Henry  Ward  Beecher 
said  was  the  most  democratic  flower  in  the  world,  for 
it  blossoms  in  every  land ;  and  the  pale  early  primroses, 
and  golden  crocuses  and  fragrant  narcissus,  the  tender 
jonquil,  the  marigold  and  daffodil — they  have  all 
bloomed  in  their  sweet  time,  for  spring  loves  to  pattern 
her  green  carpet  with  these  delicate  shades  of  yellow. 
And  I  have  had  the  summer  which  has  brought  back 
the  sight  of  many  sweet  and  longed-for  friends — the 
early  oleander,  the  cr^pe-myrtle,  the  jessamine,  the 
silver  bells,  the  pink  mimosa — and  I  Ve  listened  for 
the  whisper  of  the  snow-white  fringe- tree  and  the  rustle 
of  the  leaves  of  the  aspen.  I  have  seen  the  flash  of  the 
redbird  and  heard  his  sweet  song,  and  have  waited  in 
the  dusk  of  the  evening  for  the  myriads  of  fireflies  to 
dart  upward  like  fairy  lighthouses,  and  the  glowworm 
to  make  his  path  of  fire  through  the  warm,  scented  grass. 
I  have  heard  the  frogs  sing  their  mellow  midsummer 
chorus,  and  the  mockingbird  his  full-throated,  passion- 
ate, midnight  love-song.  And  I  Ve  listened  for  the  big 
horned  owl,  far  away  in  the  deep  cool  wood,  to  give  his 
long  hoot  and  awaken  the  whippoorwill  to  his  plaintive 
note,  and  I  have  looked  up  once  again  into  the  pene- 
trable sky  of  a  Southern  night  and  found  regal  Corona, 
splendid  Sagittarius,  proud  Scorpio,  and  the  beautiful 


426  My  Beloved  South 

clear-eyed  Virgo  shining  with  friendly  nearness,  and  in 
the  depths  of  the  heavens  that  mysterious  luminous 
radiance,  as  if  battalions  of  unseen  stars  were 
approaching  with  silver  footsteps  to  make  themselves 
visible. 

I  have  waited  for  the  Indian  summer,  and  seen  the 
crimson  sun  slowly,  softly,  regretfully  dying  into  the 
west,  the  deep  purple  twilight  shadows  giving  warm- 
hued  foliage  ruddier  tints,  and  the  mildness  of  the 
season  inducing  a  little  delicate  grain  to  peer  out  from 
the  rich  ground.  The  far-away  mountain  tops  are 
brilliant  with  a  reticent  rose  light,  and  the  shadows  are 
tenderer,  softer,  bluer  than  in  the  first  days  of  spring. 
The  tall  poplars,  the  linden  trees,  the  drooping  willow, 
the  birch,  the  lowly  pine,  the  maple,  and  the  laurel  are 
all  turned  to  gold,  scarlet,  and  a  deeper  toned  green. 
The  grape  vine,  the  sassafras,  the  Virginia  creeper  min- 
gle green  and  crimson  together,  the  beautiful  bunches 
of  coral  berries  of  the  bittersweet  are  daily  growing  a 
mellower  red,  and  deep  in  the  woods  the  exquisite  fairy- 
like  Indian-pipe  is  heavy  with  great  bunches  of  shining 
pearls  mounted  on  waxlike  stems.  The  ash  and  the 
sumach  blaze,  and  the  wind  has  a  different  voice  from 
the  spring.  It  is  sadder  but  tenderer,  yet  wild  and 
melancholy.  The  days  are  still  full  of  an  amber  radi- 
ance; the  Indian  summer  is  but  a  glorification  of  autumn 
— the  sun's  jubilee  before  the  winter  begins.  The  nights 
are  flooded  with  moonlight,  and  when  the  moon  sinks  to 
rest  the  heavens  are  like  a  sapphire  chalice  set  in  silver 
stars.  The  still  evenings  hold  a  late  breath  of  summer, 
and  the  South — my  South — has  brought  healing  to  my 
spirit.  Hope  speaks  to  me  again.  I  can  laugh.  The 
sudden  glory  is  mine  that  temporarily  blots  out  all 


My  Healing  South 


427 


sad  memories.  And  in  my  journeyings  to  and  fro  in 
ihe  world  it  shall  never  again  be  a  long  farewell  to  my 
beloved  land  but  only: 


3    !     i 


Ea-doo,    Radoo,  kind  friends,  Radoo,  Radoo,  Radon,  And 


'• 


if          I    nev  -  er  more  see     you,     you,  you,     I'll 


± 


& 


-J- 


hang     my    harp     on     a  weep-  ing  wil  -  low  tree,  And 

rilard.    fl  molto  rail.          ?•*, 


* 


may     this  world  go  well  with    you,     you,    you. 


"  It  is  a  gem,  full  of  fascinating  charm, 
which  seems  to  me  unique." 

Florence  L.  Barclay,  Author  of  "The  Rosary." 

Little  Thank  You 

By  Mrs.  T.  P.  O'Connor 

Author  of  "  I  Myself,"  etc. 

12°.     With  Frontispiece.     $125  net 
By  mail,  $1.40 

A  delightful  story.  "No  man  could  have 
written  'Little  Thank  You',"  says  an  import- 
ant English  Journal  in  discussing  the  book. 
"  There  is  that  unmistakable  feminine  touch 
that  alone  can  draw  the  tears  from  our  eyes, 
that  can  reach  chords  man's  clumsy  fingers  some- 
how cannot  touch,  be  they  ever  so  cunning. 
The  story  is  altogether  delightful.  Its  power 
is  in  the  characterization,  and  particularly  in 
the  portrayal  of  the  disposition  of  Little  Thank 
You,  who  is  every  whit  as  charming  a  little 
chap  as  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy.  We  defy  any 
ordinary  man  or  woman  to  resist  being  moved 
by  it." 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


Historic 


Historic  Towns  of  the  Southern  States 

Edited  by  LVMAN  P.  POWELL.  With  introduction  by 
W.  P.  TRENT.  With  about  175  illustrations.  Large 
8°,  gilt  top  ......  net  $3  oo 

CONTENTS  :  Baltimore,  By  St.  George  L.  Sioussat  ;  Annapolis 
and  Frederick,  by  Sara  Andrew  Shafer  ;  Washington,  by  F.  A. 
Vanderlip  ;  Richmond,  by  William  Wirt  Henry  ;  Williamsburg, 
by  Lyon  G.  Tyler  ;  Wilmington,  N.  C.,  by  J.  B.  Cheshire  ; 
Charlestown,  by  Yates  Snowden  ;  Savannah,  by  Pleasant  A. 
Stoval  ;  St.  Augustine,  by  G.  R.  Fairbanks  ;  Mobile,  by  Peter 
J.  Hamilton  ;  Montgomery,  by  George  Petrie  ;  New  Orleans, 
by  Grace  King  ;  Vicksburg,  by  H.  F.  Simrall  ;  Knoxville,  by 
Joshua  W.  Caldwell  ;  Nashville,  by  Gates  P.  Thruston  ;  Louis- 
ville, by  Lucien  V.  Rule  ;  Little  Rock,  by  George  B.  Rose. 

"  This  very  charming  volume  is  so  exquisitely  gotten  up,  the  scheme  is  so 
perfect,  the  seventeen  writers  have  done  their  work  with  such  historical  accuracy 
and  with  such  literary  skill,  the  illustrations  are  so  abundant  and  so  artistic,  that 
all  must  rejoice  that  Mr.  Powell  ever  attempted  to  make  the  historical  pilgrim- 
ages." —  Journal  of  Education. 


Historic  Towns  of  the  Western  States 

Edited  by  LYMAN  P.  POWELL.  With  introduction  by 
R.  G.  THWAITES.  With  218  illustrations.  Large  8°, 
gilt  top.  (By  mail  $3.25)  .  .  .  net  $3  oo 

CONTENTS  :  Detroit,  by  Silas  Farmer ;  Chicago,  by  Hon.  Lyman 
T.  Gage ;  St.  Louis,  by  F.  M.  Crunden ;  Monterey,  by  Harold 
Bake ;  San  Francisco,  by  Edwin  Markham ;  Portland,  by  Rev. 
Thomas  L.  Cole ;  Madison,  by  Prof.  R.  G.  Thwaites  ;  Kansas 
City,  by  Charles  S.  Gleed  ;  Cleveland,  by  President  Charles  F. 
Thwing ;  Cincinnati,  by  Hon.  M.  E.  Ailes ;  Marietta,  by  Muriel 
C.  Dyar ;  Des  Moines,  by  Dr.  F.  I.  Harriot ;  Indianapolis,  by 
Hon.  Perry  S.  Heath  ;  Denver,  by  J.  C.  Dana  ;  Omaha,  by  Dr. 
Victor  Rosewater ;  Los  Angeles,  by  Florence  E.  Winslow  ;  Salt 
Lake  City,  by  Prof.  James  E.  Talmage ;  Minneapolis  and  St. 
Paul,  by  Hon.  Charles  B.  Elliott;  Santa  F6,  by  Dr.  F.  W. 
Hodge  ;  Vincennes,  by  W.  H.  Smith. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,   New  York  and  London 


Colonial  Homesteads 

And  Their  Stories 

By  Marion  Harland 

Author  of  "  Where  Ghosts  Walk,"  etc. 

A  Re-Issue,  in  One  Volume,  of  "  Some  Colonial  Home- 
steads" and  "More  Colonial  Homesteads" 

5°.       With   167  Illustrations.      $350  net 
By  mail,  $3.75 

The  author  combines  the  accuracy  of  an  his- 
torian with  the  charm  of  a  story-teller.  She 
has  studied  patiently  and  lovingly  the  traditions 
and  historical  associations  that  cluster  about 
the  old  family  estates  founded  by  notable 
Americans  of  the  Colonial  period.  How  rich 
and  varied  is  this  lore,  none  can  comprehend 
who  have  not,  like  her,  visited  the  storied 
homes  in  person  and  had  access  to  the  family 
archives  in  each.  Every  house  has  its  romance. 
The  loves,  the  feuds,  the  tempers,  the  sportSj 
and  the  tragedies  revealed  by  such  research 
are  interwoven  with  descriptions  of  the  houses 
as  we  see  them  to-day,  and  faithful  pen-pictures 
of  the  worthies  who  built  and  lived  in  them 
when  the  history  of  our  country  was  in  making. 

New  York      G.   P.   Putnam's    Sons  London 


Where  Ghosts  Walk 


Twe 

Series 


The  Haunts  of  Familiar  Characters  in  History 
and  Literature 

By  Marion  Harland 

Author  of  "  Colonial  Homesteads  and  Their  Stories,"  etc. 

Two  volumes.     8vo,     With  Photogravure  and  Other  Illuso 
(rations.     Sold  separately,  each,  52.50  act 

Contents  of  First  Series 


Two  Little  Rooms 
"  Only  a  But  an'  a  Ben  " 
*'  Her  Gloomy  Honeymoon  " 
"An    Eating-House    for 

Goodly  Fare  " 
No.  24  Cheyne  Row 
Dante's  Every-Day  Wife 
The  Prophet  of  San  Marco 


A  Fourteenth-Century  New 

Woman 

The  Ginevra  Table 
John  Keats  in  Rome 
Told  on  the  Lagoon 
In  Ravenna 
II  Magnifico 
As  in  David's  Day 


In  Villette 
Contents  of  Second  Series 


Little  Boy  Blue 

The  Ladies  of  Llangollen 

Charles  I.  in  Westminster 

Hall 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  at  Pens- 
hurst 

Among  Historic  Chateaux 
Joan  of  Arc  at  Chinon 


Josephine  at  Malmaison 
Amy    Robsart    at  Cumnor 

Place 
Salisbury  Plain  and  Stone- 

henge 
Gentle  George  Herbert  at 

Bemerton 
Marie  Stuart  at  Amboise 


"  In  these  volumes  fascinating  pictures  are  thrown  upon  the  screen  so 
rapidly  that  we  have  not  time  to  have  done  with  our  admiration  for  one 
before  the  next  one  is  encountered.  .  .  .  Long-forgotten  heroes  live  once 
more  ;  we  recall  the  honored  dead  to  life  again,  and  the  imagination  runs 
riot.  Travel  of  this  kind  does  not  weary,  it  fascinates." — N.  Y.  Times. 


New  York 


London 


UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

T  r»C    ATsNTRT.FS 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


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1  '                          ii                       -  -  « 
•i 

gain,                             The 
mine,                               And 
tell;                             And 
Past,                              Our 

sun's              low  down  the  sky,    Lo  -  re       -       -       na,              The 
felt               the  pulse  beat  fast,    Lo  -  re       -       -       na,             Tho' 
what              we  might  have  been,  Lo  -  re       -       -       na,              Had 
heads             will  soon  lie    low,    Lo  -  re       -       -       na,            Life's 

1  -^r 

'  ljT!~~  : 

j 

I 

1     J 



g 

—  ft  »  —               f  — 

_               —  _  — 

00336  175^ 


frost  gleams  where  the  flowr's  have  been. 
mine        beat  fas  -  ter  far  than  thine. 
but          our  lov-ing  prosper'd  well— 
tide  is    eb-  bing  out  so    fast. 


But  the  heart  throbs  on  as  warm  -  ly  no 

A         hundred  months —  'twas  flow  ry  May* 

But         then,     'tis  past — the  years  are  gone, 

There          is        a     Fu-turei  0  thank  God, 


tL 

M 


whe 
up 
not 
life 


IS    K 


can  nev  -  er  dip,  s 
the  dy  -  ing  of  tt 
to  them,  "lost  years  sle 
to  dust  be-neath  tb 


r 


~nt 


.. 

chimed. 
storm." 
heart. 


Tl 

T 

r 

»T 


Cloudless  sky. 
lurch  bells  chimed. 
i  pelt-ing  storm. 
leart  to    heart. 


r 


